


Night's Shade

by altering



Series: In Light and Shadow [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bath Sex, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pining, mentioned Sylvix, mentioned byhardt, will update/add tags as needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 58,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21697915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altering/pseuds/altering
Summary: After suffering a crushing defeat in Enbarr, Linhardt is now the sole survivor of the Church of Seiros' army. Having lost his friends and allies, and with the Imperial army growing ever-stronger, he flees to Faerghus in hopes of evading capture and execution. While seeking refuge in a secluded town, he encounters Sylvain, who is grappling with demons of his own.One wants nothing more than to be swallowed by his solitude, while the other seeks vengeance for all that has been taken from him.Despite their differing goals, they find comfort in each other's company- projecting upon one another the image of their fallen lovers.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Linhardt von Hevring
Series: In Light and Shadow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104074
Comments: 58
Kudos: 124





	1. Meeting

He remembered everything in vivid, painful detail. He could smell his skin, feel his touch, and taste his lips as though he were still there- as though he were embracing Linhardt like he had so many times before.

The mage’s hand was wrapped around his cock, intentionally pumping at an agonizingly slow pace in an attempt to mimic the way Byleth moved. He imagined his former professor on top of him, observing his reactions with the same crushing intensity as a predator observing its prey. He whined at the memory, quickening the pace of his hand as his desperation began to mount.

He wanted him back.

He remembered how Byleth would suck and nip at his neck, leaving a trail of gentle kisses down his torso until he reached his hips. He would peer up at Linhardt through lidded eyes to make sure he was watching before dragging his tongue up from the base of his length and taking him into his mouth. Already Linhardt could feel that he was on the verge of climaxing, but he would not let himself finish yet. He’d force himself remember every moment; every kiss, every touch they’d shared so he could never forget. Byleth’s tongue would swirl around his tip before plunging his cock deeper into his throat, humming lustfully all the while. The vibrations made Linhardt shudder, and he moaned at a shameful volume both in memory and present. Just when he thought he could no longer hold back, he ceased, as Byleth had a nasty habit of taking him to the brink of orgasm only to abandon him. Linhardt would squirm and whimper at the neglect while pleas and obscenities spilled from his lips. Byleth would only smile down at him lovingly, and rest his palm against Linhardt’s cheek to soothe him. Once, when he had been especially brazen, he’d taken Byleth’s hand and brought it to his own mouth. He kissed the other man’s fingers before parting his lips, and weaving his tongue around and between them, occasionally sucking them wantonly. It drove Byleth wild. The professor extracted his fingers in favor of taking them to Linhardt’s ass, prodding and teasing his entrance. Linhardt tried to recreate the sensation, coating his own fingers in saliva before attempting to bury them in himself. It hurt. It felt nothing like Byleth’s careful touch, yet he did not stop. This was his curse- to never again feel the tender and affectionate touch of his lover; to settle for this crude and painful mockery.

_This is what you deserve. It’s your own fault._

He bit his lower lip in an effort to subdue the tears that he felt coming as a result of both his physical and emotional distress. He tried to return his focus to his memories- to the recollection of Byleth’s tongue dancing with his own as he stretched him. His free hand would entangle itself in Linhardts hair, giving it a light tug and earning a gratuitous whine from the younger man. Byleth would moan in reply, and Linhardt could almost feel the reverberations on his eardrums.

“_I love you,_” he would say, his lips never leaving Linhardt’s, “_I love you. I love you. I love you-_”

The tears Linhardt has previously warded off suddenly returned to his eyes and poured onto his cheeks as shallow sobs escaped him. The movements of his hands became uncoordinated and hasty as he came, his body and mind unable to endure the torment any longer. Perhaps it was merciful. Still, he cursed as he returned to lucidity, and the clear image of Byleth dissolved from his brain.

He opened his eyes and was met with reality. He had stumbled upon a tiny, abandoned cabin which he’d claimed for the night. Judging by its dismal interior and the firm grip nature had upon it, the structure had been uninhabited for quite a while, at least a year if Linhardt had to guess. There was only one large room occupied by a broken table, a filthy rug that animals had clearly torn pieces from, the remains of a fireplace, and a single bed dressed only with a ragged mattress. Despite its disrepair, Linhardt was grateful for the shelter it provided. It had been weeks since he’d passed a town or inn, and he preferred this to sleeping outdoors.

He’d been running for months as a fugitive of his homeland. Years ago, when Edelgard claimed the Imperial throne from her father and began her war against the Church of Seiros, Linhardt had known that could not follow her. He knew siding with her meant opposing the professor he had grown so fond of. Even when Byleth vanished for five years, his resolve did not waver. Instead, he returned home and witnessed firsthand how brutal and uncaring Edelgard’s methods were, solidifying his commitment to her dethronement. When he returned to Garreg Mach to fulfill the promise he made with his peers and found his beloved teacher was still alive, his path became clear. He chose to abandon his home and title to align himself with the church. With Byleth.

The two of them grew closer as the war waged on. They were side by side in every battle, their thoughts and actions perfectly synchronized. Off the battlefield, they shared every meal, met daily for tea and smalltalk, and even enjoyed a nap together on occasion. It was during this time that Linhardt felt his admiration and fascination with his professor evolving into something stronger- something he found himself unable to contain, as he confessed his romantic feelings to Byleth. His teacher did not respond right away. He only blinked at Linhardt, his face as flat and unreadable as ever, until at last his gaze softened. He’d smiled with a warmth that left Linhardt entranced as he admitted his own feelings, and the two began their romantic relationship. Never had Linhardt felt more content and euphoric than he was in those days with Byleth. He didn’t necessarily believe in the concept of soulmates, but he could not deny the profound and intimate bond that they shared. It certainly did feel as though they were made just for each other. Until the day it was all abruptly ripped away from him- the day they engaged in a battle with the Empire that left Linhardt despairingly alone without a home to return to or allies to help him. Without Byleth.

So he ran. He fled the wreckage of the battle in Enbarr and made for Faerghus, hoping to find sanctuary in the northernmost regions where the Empire had yet to fully establish control. Through sheer luck, he escaped Adrestia- of that much he was certain, as the Oghma mountains were now nothing more than a blurred strip on the horizon behind him. As he travelled deeper into Kingdom territory, he felt safe enough to venture into towns and restock on supplies, and spend his nights. However, the further north he went, the more sparse those towns became- which was unfortunate, as the climate was becoming more and more unforgiving. He figured he must be somewhere near Fhirdiad by now, though he had no intention of visiting the Empire-controlled capitol. If he could just make it to Fraldarius or Gautier territory, he would be safe. At least he hoped he would, praying that the regions had not yet fallen. If they had? Well, perhaps he would be reunited with Byleth sooner than he anticipated.

He sighed, wiping his dirtied hands on a piece of cloth he’d torn from the remains of the curtains in the cabin. He longed for a proper bath. He made a mental note to wake up extra early and search for a river to at least rinse his body, though he winced when he considered how cold the water would be. Maybe tomorrow he would at last find a small settlement to recuperate for a day or two. He threw the cloth to the floor and turned onto his side so that he faced the entryway of the cabin, fixing his gaze on the opening where a door once stood. He watched for any movement while his hand dangled off the bed with the dull glow of Seraphim on his fingertips, just in case anyone or anything tried to attack him in the night. He stared at the doorway until his eyelids grew heavy and sleep fell upon him.

_There was so much blood. It coated his hands, still carrying the warmth of the body it once supplied. He could feel it still pouring from the person in his arms. Linhardt felt as though he might be sick, but at the same time, he was completely paralyzed, hardly able to even breathe. A familiar hand rested on his cheek as he had felt it do so many times before, but he found himself flinching at the contact. It was wet. It was sticking to him. He nearly began to hyperventilate at the realization that it, too, was drenched with blood. The body he held emitted a garbled sound as though they were attempting to speak, but he could not decipher any words. He wanted to scream. He wanted so badly to release the fear that possessed his body, but he couldn’t. He was completely powerless._

Linhardt awoke with a gasp, having been holding his breath in his sleep. His eyes darted about his surroundings as his hands patted his body, trying to dry the blood he’d dreamt was staining him. Slowly, he calmed himself and his breathing began to regulate. He sat up, clutching one hand in the other to still their panicked movements.

_Just a dream…_

He tried to reassure himself, though he knew that wasn’t entirely true- it was not just a dream, but a flashback; one memory that he desperately wanted to forget.

It was turning out to be an unpleasant start unpleasant day. Despite his thoughts the night before, he had overslept well into the early afternoon, and did not have time to search for a place to bathe, lest he waste precious daylight. He gathered what few belongings he had, and resumed his trek northward, hoping that a real bath awaited him at the end of the day along with a warm meal, and a clean bed. It was an unlikely and, perhaps, foolish wish, but it was all he had. He elected to skip his first meal as well- something he found himself doing more and more as of late. His sole focus was finding some semblance of civilization, no matter how small or rural it may be.

The skies overhead were gray and glum; not dark enough to threaten him with a storm, but so opaque that he could not determine with confidence exactly how late it was. His breath was visible in the chilled air, and he rubbed his arms in a feeble attempt to warm himself. If he was unable to find decent shelter that night, he would be in for one hellish attempt at camping. The foliage around him began to grow this until it gave way to grassy, expansive flatlands. His eyes surveyed the horizons, searching for any speck or silhouette that may indicate a settlement. To his dismay, there was nothing. Only bare land in every direction. With a sigh, he dragged himself forward, holding stubbornly to hope. As his legs carried him, he allowed his mind to roam as well. He tried to remember exactly how long he’d been running; how long he’d been alone. He noted the rapidly dropping temperatures, of course that could be attributed to how far north he was. Even so, it had to have been a few months. What month was it now, he wondered. When he’d begun, it was the height of summer… was he in the Horsebow Moon? Perhaps the Wyvern? Surely it wasn’t the Red Wolf Moon… was it possible his own birthday had already come and gone without him knowing? The prospect was dizzying, and he shook it from his head. He didn’t think birthdays were anything to fuss over, but the idea that he was continuing to age while someone he’d loved so dearly had been robbed of such a mundane luxury...

He did not pursue the thought- he was graciously torn from it when his eyes fell upon an anomaly in the distance. He squinted, trying to discern the shape. Relief overcame him as he made out the tiny, but unmistakable forms of buildings. Fueled by a burst of pure adrenaline, he quickened his pace to a near-jog. As he drew closer, he was able to see the cluster of structures in greater detail. It looked to be small town. Very small as he counted no more than thirteen buildings- a few shops, a chapel, a town hall, a sickhouse, residential buildings, and- fortunately for Linhardt- a tavern with a second-story inn. He slowed down as he entered the confines of the settlement, exhaustion returning to him. He wasted no time on examining the wares of the shops, deciding he could do that at a later time. At present, he wanted nothing more than to be swallowed by the comfort of a plush, warm bed.

He entered the building, not even granting pleasantries to the man cleaning the bar as he requested a room. The man, somewhat portly and balding, yet with an abundance of hair upon his upper lip, jumped a bit as Linhardt spoke, scanning him up and down with surprised eyes. Upon collecting himself, he informed Linhardt of the price for a night’s stay, and Linhardt practically shoved his money into the barkeep’s hands. Taken aback once again by his customer’s haste, he directed him to a free room up the stairs, and at the very end of the hall. He mentioned something about there being only two other patrons staying in the establishment as he handed over a key, but Linhardt turned away and ascended the stairs before the man could finish his sentence. He unlocked the door to his room, and shut it behind him with haste just in case the man had followed him. It was a quaint, but unlavish room. There was a bed against the wall that his quarters shared with the room nextdoor, and a bedside table topped by an unlit candle. Light streamed in through a window in the center of the far wall, and there was a writing desk and chair on the opposite side of the room, as well as a dresser. He noted the amenities briefly as he kicked off his boots and shed the outer layer of his clothing, flinging it aside. Overcome by fatigue, he collapsed, facedown, onto the bed. He inhaled deeply, finding that the sheets were odorless- hopefully a sign that they were fresh. Even if they weren’t, he doubted anything could stop him from slipping into the dreamless slumber that overtook him.

By the time his eyes fluttered open, his room had darkened. He summoned Fire to his index finger as he lit the candle at his bedside. He stretched without sitting up, finding that his muscles scorned him for doing so. He could hear the muffled chatter of people and clanking of dishes from downstairs, and his empty stomach rumbled insistently. He grimaced at the thought of mingling with strangers and wondered if he might be able to fetch food and retreat back to his room. He then considered his cold demeanor upon his arrival, and concluded that it would probably be frowned upon. Even though it pained him, he felt bad about his treatment of the bartender, and decided it would be in his best interest to apologize and put on a polite show. The last thing he needed was to earn a reputation as a rude, antisocial drifter, as he intended to stay for at least a few more days.

He stood with a huff, nearly losing his balance as he was met with a headrush. He ran his hands through his hair, removing the ribbon that held up half of it only to redo the same style, then slipped his boots back on but did not bother with his outerwear. WIth any luck, he would be back in his room within the hour. Reluctantly, he made his way down to the dining area. It was not as busy as it sounded- a few people occupied the tables while only one person was seated at the bar. Linhardt took a free seat at the opposite end, and was greeted by the same man who had given him his room.

“You were out for quite a while!” He said with a grin, as though Linhardt hadn’t spurned that very day.

Linhardt mustered a smile in return.

“Yes, I was very tired,” he replied, “I apologize if I was improper earlier, I’ve been on the road for some time now.”

The bartender waved his hand in dismissal.

“Don’t worry about it. I deal with drunks on a daily basis- ain’t nothing ‘improper’ about you, my friend. ”

Linhardt exhaled a laugh, and gave him his gratitude. The man went on to introduce himself as the owner of the inn, explained that he managed it with his wife, and asked that he let either of them know if they could do anything to make is stay more comfortable. Linhardt thanked him once more when the man’s wife appeared from a room Linhardt assumed was a kitchen, and set a venison stew in front of him while the owner presented him with an ale. Linhardt tried to refuse, as he wasn’t much of a drinker, but his host was adamant. Afraid of undoing the interpersonal repairs he’d just made, Linhardt submitted and took a sip out of respect, suppressing a wince that nearly crossed his features. Satisfied with this, the barkeep finally left him to enjoy his dinner in peace. Linhardt swirled the ale in the glass, watching the amber liquid whirlpool. Even though he’d just woke up, he was already sleepy again- such was his fate, apparently. Not wanting to pass out there at the bar, he set the glass down and took his spoon into his hand, downing the stew with a speed that would have made Caspar proud.

There was a pang of grief in his chest at the sudden memory his friend. He would eat his meals with such vigor, and afterward smiled as though he might receive some kind of reward for it. It was a sight to behold- horrifying, really. Byleth shared that sentiment, fearing that Caspar would one day choke himself or tear his stomach lining. Nonetheless, they would both stare intently, disgusted and genuinely concerned, but somehow also captivated. Linhardt smiled softly at the memory, though the expression quickly faded as he returned to his lonely reality. Maybe indulging himself with alcohol wasn’t such a bad idea.

He lifted his glass and took a brave gulp, unable to stop himself from cringing as the unsavory taste fell from his tongue to burn his throat. He stared into the contents of his glass once more, attempting to void his mind of thought. He wanted nothingness.

“...Linhardt?”

He did not hear his name the first time it was spoken, nor the second. It wasn’t until he felt the presence of a person beside him that his brain comprehended the sound.

“Linhardt?”

Caught off guard, he swiftly looked up to see who could possibly be calling his name. He had to crane his neck backward a bit to see the face that was staring back at him. After a few seconds, he finally recalled the red hair and relaxed, gold eyes of the man he had not seen since his days as a student of the officer’s academy.

“Sylvain?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure- I haven't written a real fic in about 6 years lmao. I know this is a super long chapter, and I don't think they'll all be this length, but there was a lot that I wanted to establish early on so we could get to the Meat(tm) quicker. Anyway, buckle up, we're in for a weird and bumpy ride!


	2. Mirrored

To say that Linhardt was surprised would have been an understatement. He hadn’t expected to see any familiar faces in such a meager town- much less one of his peers from the monastery. Yet there before him stood Sylvain José Gautier. He looked rather shocked himself, though it was quickly overtaken by a grin as Linhardt acknowledged him.

“Wow, it really is you,” the soldier of Faerghus said with a light laugh, “I almost didn’t recognize you, it’s been so long. How have you been?”

What a stupid question. Here sat an Adrestian noble at a podunk bar in the middle of Kingdom territory, all alone, looking disheveled and likely emitting a mildly unpleasant odor; how did he think he was doing? Nonetheless, Linhardt swallowed his sarcasm and smiled courteously.

“It certainly has been a while,” he returned, choosing to ignore the man’s inquiry altogether.

Sylvain noted the omission with a momentary falter in his grin, but he quickly corrected it, and leaned against the bar to show that he had no intention of letting Linhardt off so easily.

“I’m surprised to see you all the way out here,” he gestured with his eyes to the room around them, “this doesn’t really seem like the type of place someone like you would choose to spend their time. Can I ask what brings you so far from home?”

At least this time he had the decency to ask before attempting to pry. Linhardt looked away from his former classmate and returned his attention to swirling the ale in his now half-empty glass as he formulated a response.

“I no longer have a home.”

Blunt as it may have been, it wasn’t a dishonest answer- just vague enough to be interpreted a few different ways, any of which would give Sylvain the right idea. Linhardt did not look up to see his reaction, but he heard the man shift positions next to him.

“I see.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the air between them for several minutes, briefly broken by Sylvain asking the innkeeper for a drink. Linhardt took a swig of his own, nearly emptying the glass. Hesitantly, he glanced to his side, feeling a twinge of irritation when he found that Sylvain had taken a seat directly beside him. He sat with his arms crossed on the bar and stared straight ahead, preoccupied by some deep thought. Linhardt took this opportunity to examine the man properly. The fringe that had once partially covered his features was now swept aside, revealing a face that did not appear to have aged in the past five years. However, as he continued to observe the soldier, he noticed something haggard about his appearance. Not age, but… exhaustion? Or perhaps insomnia? Whatever the cause, Sylvain now sported bags beneath his eyes, and there was a darkness both in and around them. His once confident posture had devolved into unmistakable slouchiness, and he did not appear to be as well-kept as he once had been.

The redhead’s gaze flicked to Linhardt, who quickly looked away upon being noticed. He heard Sylvain chuckle weakly.

“I look like hell, don’t I?”

Linhardt cautiously turned to the older man, finding that his smile now appeared hollow.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, searching for less offensive words to describe Sylvain’s state, “You do look like you could use some rest.”

Sylvain released another soft laugh.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he conceded, “I don’t remember the last time I was able to sleep through the night. You’re one to talk though,”

The mage tensed a bit.

“You’re not exactly a vision of perfect health.”

Linhardt threw back the remainder of his drink before responding.

“Is that so?”

He didn’t doubt Sylvain’s words. He couldn’t recall when he’d last looked in a mirror, but he must have appeared rather sickly after being subjected to the elements and depriving his body of adequate food and sleep for weeks on end. Perhaps it was for the best that he not see for himself just how horrendous he looked.

“It must have been difficult, getting this far into Faerghus on your own.”

Linhardt looked at his former classmate and blinked dumbly, while Sylvain took his lack of verbal response as permission to continue speaking.

“I don’t see any other Adrestians here, and you said that you had no home- I just assumed that meant you’d travelled here by yourself.”

Linhardt did not remove his eyes from the other man as he nodded.

“You’re correct in your assumption.”

There was a flash of pity upon Sylvain’s face, along with something that Linhardt couldn’t quite place.

“I’m sorry. That’s probably not something you want to talk about-”

“No,” Linhardt cut in, clasping his hands in his lap, “It’s fine.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, or enervation, or the odd sense of ease he felt at being able to speak to someone he knew (albeit, not very well) but Linhardt’s guarded demeanor began to waver.

“The Church’s army, everyone from Garreg Mach, everyone from the Black Eagle house… they’re gone.”

Linhardt willed away the lump forming in his throat.

“They were all killed by the Empire- by Edelgard. All, except for me.”

Sylvain said nothing, and Linhardt didn’t expect him to. The Black Eagles had been his friends as well, and Garreg Mach his home. To suddenly hear of the horrid fates that his companionshad been met with must have been nearly as devastating as watching them fall.

“Everyone,” Sylvain echoed distantly, “even the professor?”

Linhardt squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t have to hear his name to know he meant Byleth. For a heartbeat, Linhardt felt the familiar warmth and wetness of blood on his skin, the same as he had dreamt the previous night. Afraid of being consumed by the memory again, he gripped his hands tighter- so tightly that his nails dug into his skin, and he let the dull pain anchor him to the present.

“Yes,” he murmured, “That’s why I came here; because I’m running- because I’m the only one left.”

Even though his eyes were closed, he could still feel Sylvain’s gaze bearing down on him.

“I’m sorry,” the slightest crack in his voice revealed his sorrow, “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

Linhardt allowed his eyes to open and meet Sylvain’s. He appeared genuinely remorseful, and it served to accentuate the exhaustion he’d observed in him before. Linhardt took a deep breath to steady himself before replying.

“There’s no reason for you to apologize, you didn’t know,” he said, shaking his head dismissively, “Besides, it’s been months. I’ve had plenty of time to mourn.”

Linhardt knew how unconvincing he sounded, but lying was better than having a breakdown right there in the middle of the tavern. Sylvain’s expression didn’t change. Clearly he could tell that his old classmate was putting up a rather pitiful front.

“Incidentally, do you know what today’s date is?” Linhardt asked suddenly.

It was an abrupt and tactless attempt at changing the subject, but at least it wiped the heartbroken look from Sylvain’s face, replacing it with confusion and a raised eyebrow.

“It’s day twenty-two of the Wyvern Moon.”

Linhardt nodded. Nearly four moons since the bloodbath in Enbarr. He had, indeed, had plenty of time to mourn. Still, he felt relief that the year had not progressed as far as he’d feared. He was still twenty-two years old.

“Linhardt.”

He was pulled from his thoughts by Sylvain speaking his name, the sorrowfulness having returned to his face.

“There’s no way you’re okay with this.”

Linhardt’s eyes locked with the other man.

Don’t, he thought, as if trying to communicate telepathically, Please don’t make me think about it anymore.

His thoughts went unheard.

“They took everything from you,” Sylvain persisted, “The Empire robbed you of your whole life- your home, your friends, your family- and you’re really going to sit here and tell me that you’re over it?”

His tone remained somewhat gentle, but Linhardt could sense a forcefulness building beneath it. He became a bit scared to respond. What did Sylvain want him to say- that he wasn’t ‘over it’? That he didn’t think he would ever be over it? That he hated the Empire with every cell in his body? Even if he admitted all of that, what good would it do? He’d been lucky (“lucky”) enough to survive one encounter with Edelgard and her army, he dared not risk a second- especially for something so petty and useless as revenge. It was so much easier to just run, to pretend that he could still live some form of a normal life.

“They didn’t take ‘everything’,” Linhardt finally said softly, dropping is gaze to his hands that still lay clasped in his lap, “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

He listened to Sylvain sigh and take a few gulps of his ale. He seemed to ponder Linhardt’s words for a moment before continuing.

“I know what you’re going through,” he said, the intensity absent from his voice, “I know _exactly_ what you’re going through.”

His interest slightly piqued, Linhardt looked in Sylvain’s direction but refused to make eye contact again, instead staring at the soldier’s hand wrapped around his glass.

“A few weeks ago,” Sylvain began, inhaling deeply “My family received word that Imperial soldiers had invaded House Fraldarius’ territory. They wanted to seize the land and exterminate opposition- they specifically targeted those who had openly defied the Empire, or had ties to the old monarchy, and slaughtered them. Since they’re our neighbors and one of our only remaining allies, my father sent me to help drive the troops from their land. By the time I got there, the Imperial forces had already pillaged most of the territory. Felix-”

He paused as the name left his lips.

“Felix and his father refused to surrender. I helped them as best I could, but we were completely overwhelmed. After Rodrigue fell, I tried to convince Felix to retreat. I told him that there was nothing more we could do, that Rodrigue would want him to live- that I wanted him to live- but,” Sylvain’s voice faded and he shook his head, “He was a damned idiot. He wouldn’t listen to me, no matter how desperately I begged him. He said, ‘My father didn’t run. My brother didn’t run. I won’t either.’”

Linhardt’s sight moved from Sylvain’s hand to his face. He was glaring at something that the younger man couldn’t see, but there was pain manifesting behind his anger.

“Even though every instinct told me to run, I couldn’t leave him there to fight on his own. I stayed and defended his home with all that I had. I did everything in my power to protect him, and I was so focused on keeping him safe that I didn’t notice when an enemy sniper had taken aim at me. But Felix did.”

His voice became strained as he continued. Part of Linhardt wanted to stop him, to tell him that he didn’t need to continue, but another part sensed that Sylvain needed this; this opportunity for him to vent, and achieve some kind of catharsis.

“He threw himself in the sniper’s path and took the shot that was meant for me. I don’t think he even realized that he’d been hit. He just… looked at me. In all my life, I’d never seen him so terrified. I tried to help him, but I doubt that even the strongest healing magic could have saved him. The arrow went straight through his chest. He was dead before his body hit the ground.”

Linhardt shuddered. What Sylvain was describing was a situation that he himself had become all too familiar with. Though the circumstances of their deaths were far from identical, Byleth and Felix seemed to have ultimately suffered the same fate. It was almost poetic that Linhardt and Sylvain be reunited by their passings, but it felt much too bitter for Linhardt to accept it as anything other than coincidence.

“I’m very sorry,” the Adrestian said with as much sincerity as he could muster.

Sylvain didn’t acknowledge him, appearing caught up in his memories as he chugged the rest of his drink.

“He was a hypocrite,” he said, pushing his empty glass aside, “After all the times he scolded me for being reckless in battle when I would save his ungrateful ass, he then goes and gets himself killed in my place.”

His voice cracked repeatedly as he rambled, and Linhardt found himself unable to avert his attention as he watched Sylvain unravel.

“_Heir to the Shield of Faerghus_,” he spat the words hatefully, “You know we had a pact? We made a promise as children that we would be side by side until the day we died. I always thought that I’d be the first one to go, or that maybe, if we were lucky, we’d die at the same time. But this… This was never supposed to happen. He was never supposed to be _my_ shield.”

Something about the way Sylvain spoke of his departed comrade rang a bell in Linhardt’s mind. His lamentations sounded strikingly similar to the thoughts Linhardt had in the days following Byleth’s death. All at once, Linhardt understood the look of defeat he saw in the other man, and knew how it was he was able to sympathize so easily with him.

“Did you love him?” He asked, unconsciously shrinking just a bit closer to the nobleman.

“Yes.”

His answer was so staunch and assured that Linhardt worried for a moment if Sylvain had misinterpreted the question, but one look into his watery, despairing eyes showed that he’d understood perfectly.

“I see,” Linhardt said, folding his arms on the counter.

He felt somewhat guilty for inadvertently pressuring Sylvain to reveal his trauma, though to be fair Sylvain had started it. Even so, Linhardt decided that it was now his turn to console his peer.

“Perhaps you understand me better than you think,” he reflected aloud, “It seems this war has taken love away from both of us.”

Sylvain’s brow furrowed slightly.

“How do you mean?”

Linhardt exhaled slowly.

“I loved B- …our professor. I loved him more deeply than I thought was humanly possible. He was my life- my home. And they struck him down right in front of me.”

He refused to disclose the gruesome details. Unlike Sylvain, he would find reliving the moment to be less than therapeutic.

“Really,” Sylvain replied with a hint of surprise in his weary voice.

Linhardt nodded.

“I don’t think I’m capable of experiencing those emotions anymore though. I doubt that I’ll ever be able to love anyone else to that magnitude. Not that it matters. I’d like those feelings to remain exclusively for the professor, even if he’s no longer here.”

Sylvain watched Linhardt closely as he spoke, his expression unreadable.

“That’s pretty bleak, Linhardt. Even for you,” he sounded a bit unsettled.

Linhardt acknowledged him with a hum, absently rubbing the tiny crescents on his hands where his nails had previously gripped his flesh.

“What right do I have to move on?” he murmured.

“Stop.”

Linhardt’s ministrations were halted by Sylvain’s hand settling atop both of his, capturing them. Maybe it was because he’d been denied physical contact for what felt like a century, but there was a distinct electricity in the nerves beneath the skin where Sylvain’s gloved hand met his, and Linhardt stared at it fixedly.

“You don’t have to move on, but you don’t have to place that kind of burden on yourself either.”

Honorable as his intentions may have been, Linhardt wished Sylvain would stop talking. While it was true that they understood each others’ plights, he still had no understanding of Linhardt as an individual. For Sylvain to try and tell him how to handle his grief after just a few minutes of conversation felt intrusive. Linhardt attempted to hide a scowl as he lifted his head to look at the man, finding that he was significantly closer than before. When exactly had that happened, he wondered…

“Please don’t speak to me as though you know me,” Linhardt said, his voice frigid.

Sylvain’s expression was unflinchingly steady. With the distance between them reduced, Linhardt fidgeted uneasily as he felt he was being looked down upon. Sylvain’s frame was only slightly taller than his own, but he suddenly felt like he was being eclipsed. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to, and it made his pulse jump just a bit.

“I’m not trying to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong,” Sylvain said, his hand tightening around Linhardt’s as he moved closer still, “but you’ve already put yourself through so much. You said it yourself- I know what you’re feeling. I know that the pain and guilt you bear is tearing you up inside, and you’ve been carrying the weight of those sentiments on your own for so long. And while you were being beaten down by those emotions, you were also forced to endure the torture of journeying so far from your homeland…you poor thing.”

Linhardt felt lightheaded at the sensation of Sylvain’s breath brushing past his skin as he spoke, and there was an unwelcome heat pooling in his cheeks. During his time at the monastery, he’d heard numerous accounts of Sylvain’s charming maneuvers and the webs he’d spin with his silver tongue to enrapture unsuspecting maidens and gentlemen alike, but he had never witnessed it for himself. Being completely disinterested in the vain and bothersome notion of charm, Linhardt was confident that he was immune to its effects. He was disappointed to find that he was wrong as he burned under the unrelenting, hypnotic ambience that enveloped him as Sylvain’s gaze bore through his body.

“Stop that,” he said, his tone unable to rise above a whisper.

“Stop what?”

Their thighs brushed for the briefest moment, and Linhardt inhaled sharply at the shockwave it sent through his lower half. He turned his head in an effort to hide the way he flushed at the contact.

“You’re too close,” he protested, unable to break free of the physical and psychological hold the man had on him.

“Am I?”

He could feel Sylvain’s words graze the shell of his ear as the soldier placed his mouth nearly upon his lobe. For Sothis’ sake, they were in public! How much closer did he intend to get? Would he only be satisfied when Linhardt was in his lap? He regretted thinking the question, as the image his mind conjured made Linhardt chew his bottom lip in distress.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No!”

The urgency in his reply was incriminating, and it earned an amused chuckle from Sylvain. Linhardt felt the other man’s hand abandon one of his own, only to lift the other to his lips and press them softly against his knuckle.

“Hey,” he said, his voice vibrating against Linhardt’s skin, “look at me.”

Linhardt was nearly trembling. He worried about how much more his resolve would weaken if he allowed Sylvain’s eyes to pierce his. Despite his concern, he could not summon the will to disobey, and he reluctantly turned to face him. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of his hand so delicately held before Sylvain’s mouth, and the way his warm, gold eyes beheld Linhardt with an indefinable hunger.

“There’s a bathhouse just outside of here. I’d planned on going by myself this evening, but,” he slowly traced his lips over the base of Linhardt’s fingers, never breaking eye-contact, “would you care to join me?”


	3. Cleansing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author note: I really like the idea of crests manifesting physically on the body- similar to how Chrom and Lucina carry the brand of house Ylisse. It's neat.

_You miserable fool,_ Linhardt inwardly reprimanded himself, _what are you doing?_

He sat in solitude within the pool of steaming water, finding that he was tense despite its temperature. The bathing area of the bathhouse was lacking a roof, allowing the bitter cold of the outdoors to permeate the enclosed space. The coolness of the air contrasted pleasantly with the heat of the water, and on any other occasion Linhardt would have gladly let himself unwind and bask in the luxurious atmosphere. Tonight, however, he could do no such thing.

How he’d allowed himself to be enticed by Sylvain’s devious antics was beyond him. In hindsight, he believed his fatal mistake was that he ever acknowledged the Kingdom soldier’s presence in the first place. He told himself that there was still time to flee. He could sneak back into the changing area, grab his clothes, and no one would be the wiser. Even though it seemed far more rational than what he was about to do, he was unable to reason with his body. The chance to feel something that wasn’t hunger, or tiredness, or pain- the chance to touch someone, and be touched by someone; to be made to feel like a living entity again, was too alluring to resist. So he remained.

Sylvain had been gracious enough to allow Linhardt to undress privately, and he’d waited patiently outside until the Adrestian had proceeded to the baths before taking his turn. As the man had been clad in full-armor, Linhardt guessed he would probably be delayed for a bit, giving the bishop time to reflect on how exactly he’d come to be in this predicament. He sighed and sank deeper into the water until it reached his neck. Loathe as he was to admit it, the anxiety sitting in the pit of his stomach was accompanied by a sense of anticipation. He recalled the way Sylvain’s eyes were trained on him back at the tavern, how they threatened- or rather promised- to devour him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose at the indecency of it. Sylvain had said nothing promiscuous, nor had he touched him in any manner that might have been perceived as suggestive. At no point did their skin even meet. Yet Linhardt had become putty in his hands all the same. If Sylvain was capable of influencing Linhardt with such ease when he was fully clothed and operating in a public space, he could only wonder what awaited him now, and Linhardt cursed himself for the thrill it sent racing through his veins.

Just then he heard a door behind him open and shut, causing his body to shrink in on itself beneath the water. As footsteps approached him, his heart began to beat erratically, even more so when he heard fabric hitting the stone of the floor- a towel being discarded, he assumed. Sylvain eased himself into the bath, groaning contentedly as he did so. Linhardt swiftly turned his head to face the opposite direction, suddenly rendered bashful by the idea of seeing the man’s nude body. Sylvain huffed a laugh beside him, having noticed the deliberate movement.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he teased, settling himself at Linhardt’s side and propping an arm on the ledge behind him.

Linhardt didn’t know how to respond, but he hazarded a glimpse at his companion, inhaling sharply at the sight he was met with. Sylvain’s figure was obscured from his ribcage down, but the portion that was visible was rather magnificently sculpted. Broad shoulders met with taut biceps, and his pectorals hinted to a midsection that was just as built, but he was not by any means bulky. Although splendid, his physique was not what grabbed Linhardt’s attention- it was the abundance of scars upon the man’s body. As far as he could tell, they covered the entirety of the knight’s anatomy, ranging from the size of a blade of grass, to the full length of a sword. It was quite morbid to behold, yet captivating all the same.

Linhardt thoughtlessly reached out, touching a jagged, unidentifiable mark on Sylvain’s collarbone. He lightly traced his fingers over the malformed flesh, both disturbed and intrigued. As a healer and ranged-fighter, he had no scars of his own. The only blemish upon his skin was the brand of his Crest of Cethleann just below his sternum. Even Byleth had borne no scars, as he was far too powerful a being to be struck by any blade, and when, at last, his skin had been broken, it left him dead rather than marked.

“It’s ugly, right?”

Sylvain’s question pulled Linhardt from his machinations, and he removed his hand from the other man’s body.

“No,” he said, still looking at the discolored patch, “I just don’t see battle-scars very often. My practice lies in dealing with wounds while they’re fresh, rarely do I get to see what they leave behind.”

Sylvain acknowledged him with an undefined sound.

“In that case,” he retrieved Linhardt’s hand and returned it to the scar on his collarbone, “study me all you like.”

Linhardt’s cheeks went hot, and his eyes flicked to Sylvain’s. The soldier had tilted his head back slightly as if to offer the younger man a better view, but his gaze was settled on Linhardt’s face, watching him expectantly.

The mage gulped audibly, running the pad of his thumb over the disturbed area with care, his hand remaining in Sylvain’s grasp. The redhead hummed blissfully under his delicate touch and allowed his eyes to slide shut. Linhardt couldn’t help but feel as though he were petting a cat, the way Sylvain was practically purring for him. Spurred by the response, he splayed his whole hand over the knight’s chest, his fingers finding even more scars and gently examining each one. He marvelled at how some felt no different from Sylvain’s plain skin, how some were indented, and how others protruded. Linhardt silently pondered what stories were held by every mark, and how he’d come to possess so many. He also couldn’t help but wonder where among these artifacts was Sylvain’s crest. He could confidently deduce that it was nowhere on his torso, so where then…?

He was not allowed to linger on the thought. Sylvain suddenly adjusted his grip on Lindhardt’s hand so that their fingers interlaced, and he used this more secure hold to separate the smaller man from himself, and slowly pull him forward. He brought Linhardt’s chest flush against his own, the two of them positioned so that Linhardt was staring up into Sylvain’s eyes- once again glimmering with the appetite he’d witnessed before. Linhardt felt a chill beneath his skin.

“Is the rest of your body this marred?” he asked in an attempt to distract himself from how suffocated he felt by their proximity.

Sylvain smirked wryly.

“If it were, would that repulse you?”

“No,” his replied quickly with a shake of his head, “I find it…interesting.”

At that, Sylvain laughed.

“‘Interesting,’ eh?” he commented, using his free hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Linhardts ear, “You sure are an odd one.”

The man’s fingers felt almost like a shock against Linhardt’s face, as he was still unused to such familiar contact. Even so, he felt himself lean into the touch, acting purely on reflex. Though he still retained a trace amount of wariness, his body craved the sensation- every nerve crying out for pleasure where for so long there had been only emptiness.

_Yes_, Linhardt thought eagerly as his eyes closed,_ more...I want to feel more…_

His fingers tightened in Sylvain’s clutch, and the soldier’s unoccupied hand slid back from Linhardt’s face to descend along the length of his spine, his fingertips following along every bump and curve of the bone. Linhardt’s back arched instinctively when the trail reached the centriole of his hips, causing his chest to press tighter against Sylvain’s. Linhardt heard him mutter something breathily before he felt the hand on his back reach lower to rest upon his buttock. His head fell forward against Sylvain’s shoulder as he submitted to the urge to hide himself. Sylvain did not stop him. Instead, he urged Linhardt’s lower body closer.

His hand abandoned Linhardt’s bottom just as their hips were about to meet, and the bishop swore at himself for the disappointment that struck him, though it did not last long. He heard the water around them shift with Sylvain’s movements as his hand relinquished Linhardt’s in favor of holding his waist while its twin closed around his cock. Linhardt hiccupped at the touch, his arms snaking up Sylvain’s back, and his fingers digging into the man’s shoulder-blades.

There was a low growl from somewhere deep in Sylvain’s throat as Linhardt’s nails threatened to puncture his skin, and the mage peered up at him apologetically. Sylvain looked back at him, appearing outwardly unfazed by the discomfort. Rather, his expression revealed only arousal and a primal desire that made Linhardt’s lips part in a half-gape. The knight’s eyes fell to his open mouth, as though he were debating whether or not to fill its space. He made no move for it. Instead, the hand around Linhardt’s length began to stroke him slowly.

Linhardt’s eyes fell closed once more, and he pressed his still-open lips against Sylvain’s skin to muffle a sinful moan. He’d performed this exact ritual on himself several times over the past months, but never had it felt this good. He did not know if it was because Sylvain’s touch was brand new to him, or simply because he was being pleasured by someone other than himself, but he grew painfully hard much too quickly. Sylvain took notice as well.

“When was the last time you touched yourself?” He asked, his voice made gravelly by lust.

“L-Last night…” Linhardt replied weakly, his mouth still against the other man’s skin. Sylvain hissed a laugh and placed his own lips on the rim of Linhardt’s ear.

“So your body is just naturally sensitive, then?”

Linhardt shivered. Sylvain’s tone held genuine curiosity, but there was an air of foreboding to the question that caused the Adrestian’s pulse to flutter. As if to test his theory, Sylvain pumped him with one, drawn-out movement, his thumb toying with his slit as he reached the tip of his erection. Linhardt almost choked on the whimper that escaped him, and he clung to the knight with greater desperation.

“You’re noisy,” he said before drawing his tongue along the very edge of Linhardt’s ear.

Confirming Sylvain’s statement, the mage cried against his body. Sylvain resumed his ministrations upon Linhardt’s cock, now moving with quicker, less merciful strokes. Linhardt began rocking his hips in sync with the motions, yearning for release. His mind became clouded with the haze of aphrodesia, and he let himself be consumed by pleasure he had not been granted in moons.

Sylvain was the first person to lay a hand on him since Byleth. The thought hit Linhardt like a sucker punch. In his thirst for intimacy, he’d failed to think about how traitorous his actions were. How selfish he was. Byleth had been the only one to touch him in such a manner up until this point, and now, Linhardt was allowing himself to be taken by another. He suddenly felt so exposed beneath the open sky above him. Perhaps his lover was looking down upon him that very moment. Perhaps he felt betrayed, or revolted, or even angry that Linhardt was so willing to surrender himself to someone else. He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes as Sylvain’s movements grew more impatient, and Linhardt nearly reached the point of spilling into the man’s hand.

_Stop_, he ordered himself, _You have to stop!_

He shoved himself away from Sylvain before he could cum, and his body ached at the sudden deprival. He leaned back against the wall of the bath, gasping for air that failed to fill his lungs while Sylvain stared at him, completely dumbfounded. Linhardt could not look at him, not in that moment anyway. He didn’t blame the man for the horrible disloyalty that had overcome him, Linhardt had been the one to agree to the act. It was he who’d dishonored the person he loved. The guilt was his.

After he’d had a minute to regain his sanity, he heard water swish as Sylvain moved to lean beside him. Linhardt still refused to look his way.

“Are you okay?” He asked gently.

Linhardt nodded.

“Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head.

Sylvain didn’t press any further. Linhardt heard him sigh, but he did not move from his place at his side. He did feel badly about worrying the man. He wanted to reassure him that he’d done nothing deplorable, but he also wanted to refrain from burdening him with his own emotional baggage.

“Am I a horrible person?” Linhardt asked, resting his head against the ledge of the bath to gaze up at the stars overhead.

“What would make you ask that?”

Linhardt paused, carefully considering his reply.

“I’ve never- that is…other than the professor, no one else has ever...touched me. I said before that I would like my love to remain only for him, but I suppose I thought that I was comfortable with the idea of my body becoming someone else’s. I think I was wrong.”

His eyes searched the sky for some sign that Byleth was, in fact, watching, but his vision became too blurred with tears for him to even pick out one star from another.

“He would be so hurt if he knew what I was doing.”

There was silence for more than a couple of minutes. Linhardt half expected the next sound he heard to be that of Sylvain exiting the bath. To his surprise, he felt a finger brush against his cheek, wiping away a tear that had escaped his eye.

“Do you really think the professor would resent you for not wanting to be in pain?”

Linhardt shook his head again.

“It’s not a matter of pain…it’s a matter of fidelity.”

Sylvain considered his words, his finger still softly rubbing against his cheek.

“Would you prefer if we pretended that this never happened?”

It was an honest and innocent question, but it made Linhardt hurt in a different way. He did not want Sylvain to feel at fault. The fact was, Linhardt wanted him to keep going. His touch had felt so good, so liberating. It made him- for a moment- forget how utterly alone he was.

“I don’t know,” he replied, frustrated with his inner conflict. Sylvain’s finger paused on his face.

“Look at me.”

Those words were like a curse. Linhardt knew that if he complied, he’d likely be drawn back under the man’s influence, but his guilt compelled him to obey. He turned his head to look at his companion, who gazed back with a seriousness Linhardt hadn’t seen in him prior to that moment.

“You don’t have to love me,” he said steadily, “Whatever you need to comfort yourself, I’ll provide. If you want to say his name, say it. If you want to be touched as he would have touched you, I’ll do it. It makes no difference to me.”

Linhardt was now the one caught off guard. He searched Sylvain’s expression for any indication of mockery or ill intent, but found none.

“Why would you-”

“You’re not the only one of us who’s in pain,” Sylvain said, answering the question before Linhardt could ask, “I know it hurts, I know that you want to forget. I do, too. So I’ll do what it takes to lessen that pain for you- for both of us, if you’ll let me.”

Linhardt could hear nothing but earnest in Sylvain’s words. He still wasn’t sure that he fully understood the other’s motivations, let alone why he was so hellbent on subduing Linhardt’s misery along with his own. To replace Sylvain with Byleth in his mind…perhaps that would work. He’d been doing just that every time he masturbated anyway, what did it matter if he did the same with another person? The purpose of it had always been to memorize Byleth’s touch, but there were certain things he was incapable of emulating on his own. If anything, this would serve to relive those experiences- to remember what it really felt like to be loved by the person he cherished more than anything else.

Having successfully deluded himself into agreement, he slowly nodded to Sylvain.

“Very well.”

Sylvain’s face softened to express something close to warmth, and he adjusted positions so that his hands grasped the ledge of the bath on either side of Linhardt, pinning him. He lurched forward, his mouth aiming to meet the Adrestian’s. At that, Linhardt halted him by placing his hand over the older man’s mouth.

“Just...don’t kiss me…not on my lips.”

Even though he’d claimed to be fine with the sex itself, there had to be a boundary- one part of him that remained untainted anyone else.

Sylvain briefly looked puzzled, but nodded in understanding, and Linhardt dropped his hand. Sylvain rerouted himself to that his mouth landed on Linhardt’s jaw, kissing and nibbling at its edge. Linhardt tilted his head to allow the knight better access, and exhaled a soft moan.

“Tell me what he would do.”

Linhardt’s hands trailed up Sylvain’s sides, resting on his chest.

“He...pulled my hair when he’d kiss me,” Linhardt replied breathily. Sylvain’s hand wove itself into his locks, giving it a cautious tug, but it wasn’t quite right- too weak, as Sylvain was likely afraid of hurting him.

“A little harder,” Linhardt prompted. Sylvain followed his instructions, his grip tightening before pulling with marginally greater force. It was just enough to make Linhardt gasp.

“Like that,” he praised, feeling Sylvain groan into his neck in response. Linhardt dragged his hands over the soldier’s chest, fondling his pectorals experimentally. Byleth’s chest had always been a point of weakness, and he wondered if the same was true for Sylvain.

He was pleased when he heard another, more needy groan from the man as he gave his hair another light yank in return. Catching Linhardt by surprise, he yelped at a damning volume, and felt Sylvain smirk against his skin.

“What next?”

“Touch me…”

Although it was supposed to be a direction, it came out sounding closer to a plea. Sylvain didn’t seem to mind, as he wasted no time resuming his actions upon Linhardt’s length.

“Go slow,” he said, to which Sylvain puffed a laugh.

“I’ll do my best.”

Linhardt commended him silently for his self-control as he reduced his strokes to a tantalizing speed. His pace was so close to that of Byleth’s, it took no effort for Linhardt to imagine that it was his former mentor’s hands upon him. He savored the thought as he once again hardened under his touch, his hips bucking every now and then into Sylvain’s hand. He could tell the other man was becoming anxious, as his motions would stutter and his breathing grew heavy. Linhardt listened to him pant. The timbre of his voice was deeper than Byleth’s, but something about his vocalizations wound the knot in Linhardt’s lower belly even tighter. He tapped the knight’s shoulder urgently.

“N-now let go...don’t let me finish…”

Sylvain huffed in what sounded like agitation, but did as he was told. Linhardt whimpered as his hand released his cock, but this was what he wanted- to be brought to the edge of pleasure and abandoned. He eyed Sylvain, interested to see how he was holding up. The redhead’s eyes were half shut as he looked at Linhardt ravenously, and his mouth hung open as he took strained breaths. He wasn’t nearly as tenacious as Byleth, but the sight of him so disheveled and wanton made goosebumps rise from the bishop’s skin.

Linhardt wordlessly delved a hand beneath the surface of the water, reaching for Sylvain’s member. His jaw clenched as his fingers met with the hardness of his erection. He was well endowed, more so than Byleth. With his nervousness heightened, Linhardt tentatively wrapped his hand around it’s base, his face flaming at the moan Sylvain released in reply. The knight freed his hold on Linhardt’s hair, and braced himself against the ledge. As the Adrestian began to pump him, his head tilted forward, pressing against Linhardt’s. He could feel Sylvain’s labored breaths rush against his face, carrying with it the faintest scent of his ale from earlier in the night.

Linhardt stroked him with fervor, hoping to elicit even more sounds from the man. He was rewarded with Sylvain panting in shallow, tortured gasps, and twitching under Linhardt’s palm. He was fascinating to watch as he struggled to maintain control- jaw unhinged, eyelids heavy, chest heaving with every inhale. Linhardt was entranced.

He flinched in surprise as Sylvain hurriedly wrapped an arm behind his waist, and slid a finger between his ass. He whined at the sudden intrusion, every muscle in his body tensing on instinct.

“It’s okay,” Sylvain breathed comfortingly, “Relax. I’ll make it feel good.”

Linhardt tried to do as he said. He took extended breaths as the soldier gave him time to adjust before teasing his entrance with a second finger. It was painful, but not as it had been when Linhardt had attempted to stretch himself on his own. Sylvain’s hands were experienced. He hooked his fingers as he moved deeper, and spread them in a scissoring motion as he pulled out, prompting Linhardt to squirm as he was expanded. It felt odd beneath the water, but not entirely unpleasant. His movements on Sylvain’s cock became slower and weaker as his pain began to dissolve, and his own member throbbed and begged for relief.

Sensing the younger man’s need, Sylvain withdrew his fingers and arched his hips away from Linhardt’s grasp. He spun the mage around until he faced the opposite direction, his position forcing him to hold himself up against the wall of the bath. Sylvain’s hands rested on his hips, and guided them backward until Linhardt felt his length against his rear. His body tensed once again, fearing the pain he was sure would follow. Sylvain leaned forward, kissing a path down the back of Linhardt’s neck in an act of reassurance.

The ease he felt was short-lived. Sylvain pressed the tip of his cock in with as much gentleness as was possible, but it hurt nonetheless. Linhardt cried out at the penetration as his body objected. He fought the reflex to pull away, though he felt as if he might be torn apart.

Sylvain, meanwhile, held tightly to his hips, actively battling his own urge to rut unabashedly into Lindhardt’s ass. He could tell he was in pain. He could feel his walls contracting around him in protest, but the compression only aroused him further. Calling upon every ounce of his willpower and trembling with the effort, he remained still, granting the Adrestian time to accommodate him before continuing. It took time, but Linhardt felt himself stretch to Sylvain’s size, and the agony he endured gradually devolved into mere discomfort. With the other relaxing around him, Sylvain-with great prudence-pushed deeper. He hissed at how Linhardt continued to clench around him, taking him to his full extent, while Linhardt moaned feebly at the way the knight filled him.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Sylvain cursed as his hips made contact with Linhardt’s ass.

He did not acknowledge him. He was too focused on replacing the sound of Sylvain’s voice with that of his departed lover- imagining that it was Byleth inside of him rather than the heir of house Gautier.

“I’m going to move,” Sylvain warned.

Linhardt responded with a single small nod, and the other man carefully pulled out only to force himself back in. Linhardt groaned at the sensation of being filled all over again. He had an easier time adapting to the feeling, finding it to be more pleasurable with each thrust Sylvain made.

Byleth dominated his thoughts all the while. He let the illusion envelop him: _Byleth’s_ hands squeezing his hips, _Byleth’s_ strangled gasps, _Byleth’s_ hips snapping against him. He found the name pouring from his mouth like a mantra, begging for more, begging to be consumed.

Sylvain was deaf to Linhardt’s vocalizations, as they were drowned out by the sound of the water splashing as his movements became more aggressive. All he could think about was how good Linhardt felt, how he moved his hips against Sylvain’s as if he were attempting to take him even deeper. When Sylvain’s cock brushed his most sensitive spot, the mage’s head rolled back, and his spine arched in such a way that it looked as though it might break. He wailed with unashamed pleasure, and Sylvain found he was unable to control himself any longer.

He reached one hand around to grip Linhardt’s cock, stroking him violently while he rammed himself into the man’s ass. He pressed his lips against the curve of Linhardt’s neck in a kiss that ended with him sucking hard against his skin, with the intention of marking his body with a dark, prominent bruise. Linhardt’s moans came in desperate sobs as the knight fucked him without restraint. In that moment, he was reunited with his love. He was in Byleth’s embrace, coming undone under his hands. He was alive. He was no longer alone. Everything was as it should have been.

“B-Byleth-!” He cried, finally releasing into the water, his walls squeezing around Sylvain.

The nobleman, in turn, came with a final grunt, spilling his seed into Linhardt with a few exhausted thrusts before nearly collapsing upon the other’s back. Linhardt rocked back and forth against him, riding out the last waves of his orgasm as Sylvain’s member softened inside him. His hold on the ledge of the bath gave out, and he fell forward against the coarse stone. Sylvain pulled out, encircling his arms around Linhardt’s waist and rolling so that the bishop rested against his chest.

Linhardt let the warmth of both the water and Sylvain’s body swaddle him, feeling fatigue and drowsiness bogging down his mind in the afterglow.

“If you fall asleep now, you could drown,” Sylvain warned in jest.

Linhardt closed his eyes anyway.

“That’s fine,” he muttered groggily, “You’ll save me, won’t you?”

With that, he was out. He drifted remarkably quickly, though Sylvain supposed that should have come as no surprise. He watched the man intently as his breathing became deep and regular. Linhardt’s face was still flushed and his eyes looked a bit puffy, but there was something so graceful, so pristine about his resting features that made Sylavin feel as though he were in a fairy tale- that he was holding a fair, spellbound prince who waited to be awoken with a kiss.

He chased away the thought. This was no fairy tale. Even if it were, both of them had been robbed of their respective counterparts. They could do nothing to save the other. Sylvain could only watch over Linhardt in his endless slumber, and Linhardt could only give Sylvain a momentary purpose as a knight with no liege. The redhead leaned down and pressed his lips atop of Linhardt’s head- not in a kiss, but only to feel him.

“You shouldn’t rely on me so willingly,” he whispered into his hair, “I’m not capable of saving anyone.”


	4. Warmth

_When was the last time Linhardt had taken the time to enjoy the glow of the sun? When had he last permitted himself a nap under the blanket of its warmth? He couldn’t remember, but at the moment, it didn’t seem to matter._

_As daylight encompassed him, so did a familiar embrace. His breath caught as his gaze fell upon the sleeping face of Byleth, who clung to him in his slumber. Linhardt stared, his brain etching the sight into itself– his eyes shifting beneath closed lids, chest gently rising and falling with every breath, and hair lightly tousled._

_Dazed and with his heart aching, Linhardt cupped Byleth’s cheek in his hand, savoring the feel of his smooth skin under his touch. It was realistic to the point of bordering cruelty. He was very much aware that this was only an illusion; a dream conjured by his mind as a way of… tormenting him? Reminding him? He wasn’t sure. Linhardt only knew that he simultaneously longed for it to last and begged for it to vanish._

_He curled closer to Byleth as he felt the world around him stir, something in the waking realm pulling him back. As the vision ebbed away, he tried to grasp the other’s clothes, but found that there was nothing to hold on to._

His eyes batted open, and he was made conscious to the fact that he was cold. His gaze darted in every direction, attempting to piece together his surroundings.

_The bathhouse_, he recalled, his face becoming hot. He was still there, though no longer in the water. Instead, an arm hooked under his legs and another cradling his back told him that he was being carried away from the pools, back to the confines of the changing rooms.

He turned his head, first seeing his hand curled into a fist against a scarred chest where he’d attempted to hold Byleth’s robes. He peered upward to see Sylvain’s face staring intently forward.

“How long was I asleep?” Linhardt asked hazily. Sylvain glanced down at him.

“Not very long,” he replied, “you’re a pretty heavy sleeper, you know. I tried to wake you up, but you weren’t budging, so I carried you out myself.”

Linhardt’s eyes shifted downward, “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind,” Sylvain said dismissively, briefly looking at Linhardt again and sweeping his eyes over his body. “You’re cute when you let your guard down like this.”

_Cute_, Linhardt thought with a twisted expression. His patronizing wiles were relentless.

“Please put me down,” he scoffed.

“Hey, come on, I didn’t mean anything bad by it,” Sylvain reassured him, not releasing Linhardt from his arms.

“Of course you didn’t. Put me down.”

Sylvain rolled his eyes, but did as he was told, his devilish grin never leaving his face. Linhardt frowned, not realizing how Sylvains body had been warming him when he was fully met with the frigid air. He held his arms around himself tightly as he waited for Sylvain to open the door to the changing rooms. The redhead allowed him to enter first, for which Linhardt was grateful. He scurried into the room, finding that it offered minimal relief from the cold. He quickly located his clothes, folded neatly where he’d left them, and dressed as swiftly as he could. His nose scrunched at the earthy scent his clothing still carried. He’d at least been able to rinse his body, but it seemed like a waste to pollute his skin so soon. But his options were limited: he either wore them, or froze to death.

He exhaled defeatedly and turned to see if Sylvain had finished redressing. Linhardt had left him in the dust in that respect. His trousers were back on, but his upper body remained exposed as he faced away from Linhardt, fiddling with his inside-out shirt. He allowed his eyes to drink in the man’s back as they had his chest; also littered with scars, and also rippling with defined muscles. Though something else caught Linhardt’s attention. Something he had not been able to locate on Sylvain’s front. Spanning proudly over his left shoulder blade was his crest of Gautier.

Linhardt took a few steps closer for a better look. He’d seen its pattern before, but only in text. To have it presented in the flesh brought him a rush of intrigue that he hadn’t felt for quite some time. His eyes traced the sharp, yet symmetrical shape, and observed how it seemed to move with every stretch and pinch of Sylvain’s skin. He absently reached out to touch it, following the impulse to feel it under his fingertips.

“You sure have a hard time keeping your hands to yourself.”

Sylvain’s words halted him before he could make contact. His voice was not hostile, but it lacked the carefree nature that his tone typically carried. Linhardt dropped his hand to his side, mumbling an apology. Sylvain had been so willing to let Linhardt touch him before– he’d _encouraged_ it– but he gave no invitation this time. It roused Linhardt’s interest.

“I thought I had your permission to ‘study you all I like’,” he replied, his eyes still set upon the crest. Sylvain snorted in response.

“You’re more than welcome to explore my body whenever you please,” he chaffed, glancing mischievously at Linhardt from the corner of his eye. “Just be mindful of where you wander. I’m not fond of curious hands on certain areas.”

Having said his piece, Sylvain pulled his shirt over his head, hiding his back and his crest from Linhardt’s gaze. Disappointed, Linhardt frustratedly puffed a strand of hair from his face. Sylvain did not bother to reassemble his armor, instead choosing to drape it over his shoulder as the duo left the bathhouse.

They walked in silence back to the inn, Linhardt edging closer to Sylvain whenever the wind would blow and cause the cold to bite through his clothing. The knight eventually pulled Linhardt to his side, holding him by the hip. While he wasn’t pleased with the insistent gesture, he found relief in the heat Sylvain’s body seemed to exude. If there was one thing to be said about the Gautier heir, it was that he had remarkable resilience when it came to freezing temperatures.

They returned to an empty tavern, with only a few sconces remaining lit on the walls– just enough that they could find their way up the stairs. As they neared the end of the hallway, Sylvain stopped just short of Linhardt’s room, right in front of the door that preceded his own.

“This is my room,” he said, freeing Linhardt from his hold. The mage felt his heart sink slightly at the prospect of being alone once more. He was just beginning to grow accustomed to the other man’s presence, but he supposed there was no helping it. He turned to retreat to his quarters until Sylvain spoke again.

“If you’re still cold, I wouldn’t mind sharing my bed tonight.”

Damn him. Was Linhardt’s apprehension really so obvious? He looked back at the man, who stood with his hand on the doorknob, waiting for him. The Adrestian looked at the door, then to Sylvain, and back again before finally nodding and returning to his side.

Visibly pleased with his decision, Sylvain opened the door for Linhardt, once again permitting him to enter first. Linhardt obliged, stepping out of his boots and looking around as he passed through the doorway. Everything about the room was identical to his own, save for the papers that laid upon Sylvain’s desk and a few articles of clothing strewn on the floor.

His observations were interrupted by arms encircling his waist, and tugging him backward against a firm, warm chest. Linhardt felt Sylvains chin rest in the crook of his neck, and his breaths rushed past his ear.

“They say the quickest way to warm yourself is to share body heat,” Sylvain said, their closeness making Linhardt’s skin tingle with the vibrations of his voice.

“That’s if you’re in danger of succumbing to hypothermia,” Linhardt retorted as he felt Sylvain already moving to undo the buttons of his clothes. He was undeterred, and only hummed in return.

“You look frozen to me,” he said, pressing his mouth to the skin just below Linhardt’s jawline. The Adrestian gritted his teeth and fought the instinct that compelled him to bare his neck for Sylvain. He only stood stiffly as the soldier made quick work of his clothes, lazily tossing each piece aside as he went, and eventually urging the final layers down Linhardts hips until they pooled around his feet. Stark naked, he stood silently while he listened to the sounds of Sylvain discarding his own clothes. It seemed like such a bother- the two of them having just dressed themselves only to strip down a few minutes later, but he was glad to be rid of them and their filth on his newly cleaned skin.

He trembled, unsure whether it was a result of the chill he retained, or the situation he was in. He felt hands drag along his arms, travelling from his shoulders down to grip his wrists as Sylvain’s lips met his neck, donning it with wet kisses. Linhardt inhaled deeply through his mouth in a soundless gasp, and his hands curled into fists as the kisses turned into playful nips. Sylvain bumped his knees into the backs of Linhardt’s legs, ushering him toward the bed until the mage fell forward onto its plush surface, and Sylvain released him from his hold.

Linhardt buried his face into the mattress, horribly aware of the compromising position he was in. He had already exposed himself to Sylvain once that night, but with no water to hide beneath, this felt much more explicit.

“You do that a lot,” Sylvain said thoughtfully. Linhardt turned his head slightly, just enough so that he could see Sylvain kneeling behind him in his peripheral. “You hide your face when you’re flustered.”

He moved until his hands held him above Linhardt from either side of his body, and loomed over him, “You may not like hearing it, but you really are cute.”

Linhardt sneered at the word again, while Sylvain lowered himself until his mouth fell upon Linhardt’s nape, resuming his previous activities. The bishop breathed heavily as he felt Sylvain’s teeth threaten to nibble his flesh, though they never did. He continued kissing hungrily, occasionally sucking hard on his skin, earning a whine from Linhardt each time he did.

“It hardly seems fair,” Sylvain said, his voice low, “I’m covered in all these unsightly scars, and you’re completely clean…am I cruel for wanting to make a mess of you?” He brushed Linhardt’s hair aside and gave his neck a particularly rough suck, making the younger man cry out against the mattress. Sylvain released his skin with a loud pop, and brushed his thumb over the area. He’d been marking Linhardt the whole time, but this one would surely be darker than the rest, and would be significantly harder to hide.

Sylvain gently turned Linhardt over so that the Adrestian rested on his back, unable to hide himself as he apparently did habitually. Amber eyes lit Linhardt’s skin ablaze as they raked over him appreciatively. Though they suddenly grew dark as Sylvain’s gaze became fixed just above Linhardt’s abdomen. The mage had to glance down to remind himself that was the spot where his crest manifested. He watched Sylvain watch him. The knight was staring at the pattern with unmatched focus, as though he were trying to decode it.

“I guess you have a few unsightly marks of your own,” he said in what was almost a growl.

Before Linhardt had time to ponder what he’d meant, Sylvain dove down, his lips latching onto Linhardt’s crest. The bishop’s back arched as Sylvain’s tongue swept over the skin and his teeth grazed his body. He sucked at it aggressively, nearly to the point where it was painful. Just before Linhardt could tell him to stop, he let go, only to take the skin into his mouth once more and repeat the process.

He continued until Linhardt squirmed uncomfortably beneath him, at which point he pulled away from the mage, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and gazing down at his handiwork. Linhardt, too, looked at the area. The skin was blotched purple and red, making it look as if Linhardt had been punched by a gauntlet. His crest was somewhat obscured by the discoloration, but it was still visible, showing defiantly through the dark patches. It made him queesey, how it looked like his flesh had nearly broken.

“I got carried away, didn’t I?”

The question dragged Linhardt’s attention away from the bruises blooming upon his body. He looked at Sylvain, whose expression lacked the intensity it had previously held. Regret shone in its place.

“Just a bit,” he replied, his hands hiding the mark from view. Sylvain’s features softened. He peeled Linhardt’s hands away from where they shielded his crest, but he did not look at it again. His eyes remained set upon Linhardt’s face as his lips pressed tender kisses to the area he had been so violent with before.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his hands sliding up Linhardt’s sides. “Did it hurt?”

Linhardt’s body undulated in his grasp, his mind hardly registering the question.

“Only a little.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, kissing his way up to Linhardt’s neck. “The professor never would have been so rough, would he?”

Linhardt was still. The words pierced his heart like a blade, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t a false statement, and Sylvain wasn’t teasing him. Yet he felt that there was some unknown, underlying intent behind the question.

Sylvain lowered himself to lay beside Linhardt. His arms curled around his slender frame, holding him close, and Linhardt flinched as his weak erection brush against Sylvain’s body.

Having felt him tense in his arms, Sylvain stroked his back softly in reassurance.

“I won’t touch you unless you want me to,” he promised, and Linhardt relaxed a bit, shrinking against Sylvain’s body.

“I want nothing but to rest now,” he muttered, though his exhaustion did not weigh as heavily upon him as it had before. “Will you…Could you continue to talk until I fall asleep?”

Sylvain’s hand paused on his back, “What would you like me to talk about?”

Linhardt thought it over, wracking his brain for a topic that was not too terribly boring, but wouldn’t stir his mind.

“Tell me about Felix.”

He worried for a moment that the subject was too delicate or might upset Sylvain, but he wanted to hear him lament as he had earlier in the night. Perhaps not with such sorrowful detail, but it brought Linhardt comfort. It soothed his hollow heart to know that someone else was feeling the same grief that haunted him– to know that he wasn’t alone.

“Felix, eh?” Sylvain gave no indication that he was uncomfortable speaking of the man, but his voice betrayed a certain weariness. “Where do I even begin?”

“Were you a couple?”

Sylvain seemed to mull it over before answering, “I’m not sure,” he finally replied, “I guess we weren’t, at least not in the traditional sense. It’s not like we had the opportunity to go on dates or anything. Most of the time we spent together was during training, or strategy meetings, or on the battlefield.”

“Byleth and I never had a proper ‘date’ either,” Linhardt responded, “but there was never any question about the nature of our relationship. I think it all depends on whether you loved each other, and whether both of you knew it.”

“Hm,” Sylvain grunted, “I don’t think we met those standards either. We didn’t talk about our feelings, or why we chose to be together. We just…were. Like we didn’t know any other way to exist.”

Linhardt’s eyes fell closed as he let the other man talk without interruption. He didn’t know Felix well enough to fully comprehend the dynamic Sylvain described, but he understood well enough. He recalled their days as students when the two were seemingly inseparable, despite them bickering a majority of the time. Even back then, they shared an unspoken bond that was beyond anything Linhardt had experienced himself, at least up to that point.

“Maybe I should have told him,” Sylvain continued, “Even if he didn’t feel the same way, and even if there had been consequences, I wish that there had been no doubt.”

Linhardt’s consciousness was beginning to fade as he relaxed against the knight.

“Somehow, I think he knew,” he said through a yawn, “And considering the fact that he gave his life to protect you, I’d wager that he loved you as well.”

“Solid theory,” Sylvain commented, “I want to believe that.”

“You should,” Linhardt said faintly, “I’m sure that I’m right.”

“How do you know?”

“Just…trust me…”

Sylvain indifferently drew circles on Linhardt’s back with his fingertips, “You remind me of him in some ways.”

Linhardt gave no reply.

“You’re both so sure of yourselves, you don’t like to mince words” he smiled fondly at nothing, “Neither one of you knows how to take a compliment. You don’t like it when I say you’re cute–”

He stopped abruptly as the looked down at Linhardt, finding that he was once again sound asleep. Sylvain’s smile faded. He quietly pulled a blanket over the two of them, taking care not to shift too much, and held Linhardt tightly. His body was still cold to the touch. Were it not for his pulse beating softly beneath his skin, he might have been mistaken for a corpse.

He listened to the steady sound of Linhardt’s breathing, occasionally feeling the mage twitch as he began to dream, and Sylvain wondered what about. Was it a sweet dream? Was he trapped in a nightmare? What pleasantries or horrors did his mind force upon him as he slept? Were they anything like the terrors that plagued Sylvain– that frightened him to the point that he was afraid to even blink, lest he be subjected to gruesome, heart-wrenching images?

Linhardt murmured incoherently in his arms, his voice too soft for Sylvain to make sense of what he said. With all his heart, he hoped Linhardt did not see the same traumatic visions that he did. He knew how the Adrestian treasured his sleep, and the idea of him being denied such a small pleasure after losing nearly everything else made Sylvain hurt for him. Maybe Sylvain– who reverently and openly threw his support behind Dimitri and his homeland– had invited the disastrous events that befell him. But Linhardt? While he did not know him well at all, Sylvain had difficulty believing that the man deserved any of the tragedy he’d endured. Five years prior, he’d known him only as a tired, bookish, quirky loner with a passion for crest-research and a disinterest in fighting. He didn’t seem to have changed much. His only fault lied in his devotion to the church, which only came about due to his love for his former professor. It was unfair. In every other respect, he was still that reserved student who Sylvain never spared a second thought.

He was truly grateful that they’d bumped into each other. He was happy that they’d been granted this moment of peace and comfort. However brief and insignificant it might have been, he wanted to cling to it. The last thing he heard before being plunged into the darkness of slumber was the sound of the professor’s name, whispered from Linhardt’s mouth. He was relieved, as well as a bit envious. At least one of them would be granted a pleasant dream that night.


	5. Dawn

Linhardt awoke from a dream that he could not recall to find the room he occupied tinted gray with the first light of dawn. He guessed that it was still the earliest hour of the morning, as there were few birds to be heard singing outside the window. Everything felt relatively dormant, including the body lying beside him.

He faced Sylvain’s back as the man slept still. They were close, separated by mere centimeters. Linhardt could hear his steady, deep breaths, and see his body rise and fall in perfect synchrony with the sound. He had a sudden urge to peek over the nobleman’s shoulder and steal a glimpse at his sleeping face. He was curious as to how Sylvain truly looked–how his features appeared when he was not putting on airs or saving face. It was a sight in which Linhardt thought he might find some brief amusement or, perhaps, comfort.

The idea was overshadowed as his eyes were magnetized to an anomaly on Sylvain’s shoulder blade as his Crest of Gautier seemed to beckon Linhardt’s attention. It was on full display right before his face, and he suddenly held his breath for fear that his exhales would brush the mark and cause Sylvain to stir. The soldier had made himself quite clear–he did not want his crest to be acknowledged. Not physically, nor verbally. Linhardt couldn’t sympathize with his disdain, though he understood that Sylvain had his reasons for scorning the subject. Still, he thought it was a bit unreasonable to ask that an aspiring crest scholar ignore something so fascinating.

With timid movements, Linhardt drew forth one hand and traced his fingertips over the crooked lines of the mark. He breathed as shallowly and infrequently as he could while he mapped the crest with his hand, not daring to wake the knight. Until that point he’d only touched two crests: his own, and Byleth’s. Both of theirs had somewhat organic shapes that flowed with gentle curves, loops, and arches. Sylvain’s, however, was different. Harsher, almost. Its appearance alone was intimidating, as it nearly resembled a weapon–perhaps a blade or a scythe of sorts. Even more peculiar than its pattern was the aura that it seemed to exude. It caused the hairs on Linhardt’s arms to stand, though he couldn’t confidently identify the feeling that it seeped into the skin of his fingers. It felt like a distant tug at his basest, most archaic sense of danger, yet he could not pull himself away. Despite the rather frightening sensation that it evoked, his nerves were alive with anticipation.

He threw caution to the wind as he laid his whole hand over the crest, pressing his palm so firmly that he could feel Sylvain’s pulse beneath it. His own heart pounded in return, though he didn’t know if it resulted from the energy of the mark, or his disobedience to Sylvain. He inched himself closer to the other man until his body was snug against his back. He smelled pleasant. His natural musk mixed nicely with the scent of fresh linen that clung to his skin. Linhardt inhaled it softly, closing his eyes as he did so. Without thought, his hand gave way to his fingertips once more as they, again, traced over his crest. This time, they did not follow the sharp angles. Instead, they drew the symbol they’d come to memorize; they drew the curves, loops, and arches that he knew so well.

Allowing a wave of nostalgia and sentimentality crash over him, Linhardt gently pressed his lips just below Sylvain’s nape while his fingers printed the shape of the Crest of Flames over the Crest of Gautier in an endless movement. He repeated the kiss several times, each one causing him to curl closer against Sylvain’s back. Part of him wished he’d wake up and return the affection, but another feared what his reaction would be when he felt Linhardt’s hand violating the only part of him that was restricted.

He recoiled abruptly as he felt Sylvain rouse, the knight rolling to face him and forcing Linhardt to separate himself. His eyes were upon the younger man, with weak irritation burning through a haze of sleepiness.

“I didn’t think that such blatant defiance was in your nature,” he chided, his voice gruff. “Was it really too much to ask that you mind your hands?” His words were devoid of any real anger, but they made Linhardt nervous all the same.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I wasn’t trying to–”

He was quickly cut off by Sylvain slipping an arm beneath his body, wrapping it around his waist, and pulling him close until the tips of their noses brushed. Linhardt could only look ahead with widened eyes into the knifelike gleam of the pair staring back at him. He imagined this was how a mouse felt just before it died in the coil of a serpent.

“As I recall, there was a part of _you_ that _I_ wasn’t allowed to touch.” Linhardt swallowed hard, finding his throat painfully dry. Dread weighed heavily in his stomach as he understood exactly what the other man’s intentions were. His hand swiftly moved to cover his mouth, but Sylvain’s caught his wrist before he could.

“Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “Please, don’t.”

A smirk flickered across Sylvain’s face as his eyes glanced just below Linhardt’s nose. “It’s only fair, right? You break my rule, I break yours.”

Linhardt shivered as he felt Sylvan’s hot breath against his lips. They weren’t touching–not yet. They lied in wait as Sylvain seemed to calculate his next movement.

“I wonder how you like to be kissed,” he pondered aloud. “Should I be gentle or rough? Do you like it soft and quick? Or maybe, you’d prefer that I take my time and taste you thoroughly…”

Linhardt shivered in his grasp. He thought about wrestling himself away from the knight, but he was outmatched in every conceivable sense. He could feel his heart trying to burst forth from his chest as Sylvain’s lips ghosted over his own.

“Tell me,” Sylvain whispered in warning, “or I’ll do as I please.”

Linhardt struggled for composure, but could not attain it. His mind was an indiscernible mess of drowsiness, panic, and faint arousal. All he knew was that he did not want Sylvain’s kiss–he wanted anything but. He felt the other man shift as his patience began to run out. Frantic and fearful, Linhardt squeezed his eyes closed and prepared for the unwelcome sensation.

“Sylvain–!” He cried in a final act of desperation. It was then that everything ceased. Sylvain was still. The presence of his lips nearing Linhardt’s vanished, as did his grasp on the mage’s wrist. Instead, Linhardt felt something large and warm cover his mouth, protecting him from Sylvain’s advances. He reopened his eyes to find the nobleman’s hand upon his face, and Sylvain’s lips pressed to its back as it acted as a barrier between him and Linhardt.

He watched the redhead with bewilderment as he pulled back, keeping his hand over Linhardt’s mouth.

“Just kidding.”

Linhardt had never wanted to strike a person so badly. How cruel this man could be. How easily he could dismiss that cruelty as a meaningless joke. Agitated, Linhardt used his newly freed hand to bat Sylvain’s away from his face.

“You’re horrible,” he grumbled, unable to ignore the twinge of betrayal he felt. Sylvain was unaffected by his words, as he closed his other arm around Linhardt and met his gaze without care.

“I won’t argue with that.”

He rolled onto his back, dragging Linhardt with him so that the Adrestian laid upon his chest. He flushed as he felt Sylvain’s stiffened member against his abdomen. His own throbbed in return and he fidgeted in the knight’s hold, uncomfortable from both his position and his stimulated state.

“I don’t understand why you’re so fixated on that damned crest,” Sylvain said flatly, his arms falling away from Linhardt’s body so that he could lie freely on top of him. “It’s nothing but a curse.”

“If I were capable of taking it from you, I would,” Linhardt replied in earnest as he propped himself up on his elbows and edged down the length of the other’s body.

Sylvain scoffed. “Even if that were possible, I couldn’t let you do that to yourself. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.”

Linhardt came to a halt at the juncture of Sylvain’s hips, glancing up to see him watching with eager, but tame eyes.

“But if I had your crest, then perhaps I could become stronger than my worst enemy–”

Sylvain suddenly raised a hand to comb it through Linhardt’s hair, effectively silencing him.

“Your heart is too pure, Linhardt.” His words took the mage by surprise, causing him to look at the knight with unblinking, transfixed eyes. Sylvain’s expression had softened to something sembling fondness as he looked back at him. “I’d hate to see you fall into depravity because of me.”

With a frown, Linhardt quickly shifted his gaze, suddenly feeling crushed under the burden of Sylvain’s words.

“I fear that my heart has already been tainted by people far worse than you,” he whispered, his voice so low that it might not have reached Sylvain’s ears.

The mage did not give him an opportunity to respond. He wrapped a hand around the base of Sylvain’s cock and opened his mouth, his tongue laving over his tip as the soldier groaned above him. The hand in Linhardt’s hair wove itself further and gripped tighter, acting as an anchor for both of them. Linhardt sighed appreciatively at the dull pain it invoked, and he slowly took Sylvain deeper until his length was nearly in his throat. He barely suppressed a gag before lifting himself, only to descend on him again and again. Sylvain uttered a string of breathless swears and dug his fingers into Linhardt’s scalp, eliciting from him a whine that caused Linhardt’s jaw to go slack around his member. Linhardt killed the reflex to moan for Sylvain and plead with him as he had with Byleth so many times before. He would not say his name. He _could not_ say his name. The moment he accepted the body connected with his as Sylvain and not Byleth would be the moment that he truly forsook and disgraced his lost love.

“You don’t have to hold back,” Sylvain said throatily, taking notice of the other man’s inner conflict. “I told you before, if you want to say his name, then say it; if you want him, then let me be him.”

Linhardt tried to meet his gaze, attempting to peer up at him through watery, lidded eyes. His vision was too obscured and his mind too foggy for him to make sense of anything. He only registered the fingers in his hair, now stroking him softly–unfamiliar digits touching him in such a nostalgic manner. He felt he was undeserving of such tenderness, but he didn’t dare shun the hands that held him.

He swallowed Sylvain deeper, emitting a strangulated sound when he thought he might choke. Sylvain responded with strained grunts, as if he were resisting the temptation to force himself deeper. Linhardt’s jaw ached as his pace quickened, punctuating every movement with a hum that resonated from the depths of his throat. As the faint taste of precum salted his tongue, he heard Sylvain growl overhead.

“Damn it,” the soldier said through gritted teeth.

Without warning, he took hold of Linhardt’s shoulders and pulled him away. A bit stunned, Linhardt looked at Sylvain with a glazed expression. His lips were reddened and glistening with the sheen of his saliva, and his hair had completely fallen out of its typical style, cascading over his shoulders in messy waves. Sylvain had been fully serious when he’d called Linhardt pretty before, and he had to dismiss the urge to say it once more, lest he incur the bishop’s passive-aggressive wrath. In a single stealthy movement, he pulled Linhardt against his chest again and rolled until he lurched over the mage just as he had the night before. The smaller man had become visibly apprehensive from the sudden, dizzying reversal, and his knees curled instinctively against his body.

“It’s alright,” Sylvain cooed, though his gritty voice made it sound less-than-soothing, “I won’t do anything to hurt you. Just lay back.” Linhardt observed him for a heartbeat more before complying. His legs slowly relaxed back against the mattress, and Sylvain seized the opening. He maneuvered himself between his legs, lining his erection up with Linhardt’s. The Adrestian’s breath hitched as they touched, and he bit down on the joint of his index finger to stifle his vocalizations.

Sylvain ground against him with one drawn-out thrust, groaning at the friction it created. Linhardt’s eyes rolled closed and he bit down harder on his finger, half-expecting to hear bones snap. When they were in the bathhouse, he’d paid no mind to his cries, but now they were back at the inn, concealed only by thin walls. The thought of someone hearing his shameful exclamations was mortifying, but they weren’t something he felt he had control over. He was reminded of that fact as Sylvain thrust again and pulled an involuntary whine from Linhardt’s lungs. He quickly clasped both hands over his mouth to obstruct any other noises that might follow–a gesture that made Sylvain grunt frustratedly.

“Don’t do that,” he said, to which Linhardt’s eyes fluttered halfway open. Sylvain’s face was close to his, so close strands of fiery hair were dangling to tickle his cheeks. “How many times do I need to say it? You don’t have to hold back.”

Linhardt’s hands remained clasped, but he let them drop to hover over his chin so that he could speak.

“Someone might hear me.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Of course it would!” He blinked at Sylvain incredulously, completely baffled by his indifference. The knight’s expression remained unflinching.

“What do you think will happen? Do you think someone will confront you? Do you think they’ll condemn you?”

They were good questions, and they did cause Linhardt to evaluate his concerns, but he felt they were also meant to taunt him. He could only dodge his eyes and shake his head with uncertainty.

“Don’t worry about anyone else,” Sylvain said with a warmer tone, “Right now, there’s only you and me.”

He rolled his hips again and Linhardt resisted the instinct to over his mouth once more, permitting a soft whine to escape.

“Yes,” Sylvain said as he braced himself against the bed, “Let go.”

His words were laced with a sweetness that made Linhardt feel feverish. His hands vanished from his face to clench the sheets around him as Sylvain undulated against him with maddening pressure. His pace became less kind as he attempted to coax more sounds from Linhardt’s parted lips. The mage breathed a series of whimpers and utterances that almost resembled words, but his last ounce of self-control refused to let him do much else. Sylvain’s lips loomed over his, drinking in every breath and noise that flowed from them.

“Say his name,” he demanded, eyes trained on Linhardt’s which had once again been tightly shut. “I know you want to say it…”

Linhardt could hardly hear him over the blood rushing in his ears and his now-unrestrained cries that reverberated through the room. His lips weakly tried to form the correct shapes, as though he were sounding out the word for the first time.

“By...S...Byle…”

He struggled with the syllables as Sylvain’s movements stuttered and grew erratic at the unnatural consonant that had snuck its way into Linhardt’s babbling. The Adrestian felt his heavy breaths puff against his lips, and every muscle in his body contracted as he lingered on the brink of euphoria.

“By…leth…” he finally whined.

With a guttural groan, Sylvain spilled onto Linhardt’s stomach, his cock twitching against the other’s. Linhardt shuddered at the sensation as his vision went white in the throes of his own orgasm. His back arched off the mattress and he bared his neck for Sylvain to claim as he released onto himself. The noble’s tongue explored the spanse of his throat, his hips bucking lightly against Linhardt as they rode out their climaxes together.

Sylvain collapsed beside him when they were both entirely spent. The knight’s arm reached over the edge of the bed to grab something, and Linhardt felt fabric pat the mess from his body. He looked down as Sylvain cleaned him with the shirt he’d worn the previous night, lazily throwing it aside when he was done.

“I sincerely hope that you’re planning to wash that,” Linhardt jabbed, his voice raspy. Sylvain snorted beside him.

“Don’t worry, it’s not like those are the only clothes I have. It’ll get cleaned.”

The nobleman wormed an arm beneath Linhardt’s torso as he spoke, and used it to pull him close. Linhardt was much too exhausted to object, and Sylvain’s body held such an inviting warmth. His head fell against his chest and he listened to the steady beating of his heart. It was somewhat of an odd thing, listening to someone else’s heartbeat. Byleth, for whatever reason, did not have a pulse. Strange as it was, Linhardt did not mind it. He’d always thought that heartbeats would conjure images of the organ convulsing and propelling streams of blood–a prospect that made him unbearably queesey. But this...it was pleasant. Soothing, even. As though he were listening to a metronome that kept time for a living being.

“You can borrow something to wear if you want.” Sylvain’s voice dragged Linhardt back from his thoughts. “I figure you might not be too keen on wearing your own clothes if they’re dirty. If you like, I can have them washed with mine.”

Linhardt blinked at Sylvain, who stared fixedly at the ceiling. “Thank you,” he said, finding himself slightly surprised by the man’s kindness. Part of him had expected to be discarded and ignored, and that he would simply have to go on as though the two of them had never encountered each other. There was a trace of relief in him as he realized that Sylvain was not so quick to part ways.

“Everything I have will probably be a little big on you,” Sylvain continued with an absentness that made it seem like he might be talking to himself, “but it’s better than nothing, I guess. You seem like the type who likes loose-fitting things anyway.”

“If by that you mean I’m the type who likes to be comfortable, then you’re correct,” Linhardt retorted, at which point he was met with an amused look from Sylvain.

“So defensive,” he laughed shallowly, “I think you need more sleep.”

Linhardt opened his mouth to object, but closed it almost immediately. Though he didn’t appreciate Sylvain’s mocking tone, he wasn’t about to argue over an opportunity for more sleep. Begrudgingly, he shut his eyes and focused again on the continuous beat of the soldier’s heart. He let it lull him into a state of relaxation as his bodily fatigue caught up with him.

“Linhardt?” Sylvain said, sounding rather exhausted himself.

“Hm?”

There was a pregnant pause. Linhardt listened intently for whatever it was that Sylvain had intended to say, but was given only silence. Assuming that the knight had drifted off before he could finish his thought, Linhardt let his consciousness be swept away into the depths of sleep. Before he sank completely into its embrace, a single sentence echoed in his ears.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry about the delayed update, january was honestly a miserable month for me (also i started writing this chapter, got about halfway through, then decided to scrap it and start over). anyway, i'll do my best not to take a month between chapters again. thanks so much for your patience and support!
> 
> P.s. i have a twitter now (@ alter_altar ) its locked but feel free to follow, i’ll accept basically anyone lol


	6. Ties

When Linhardt awoke for the second time that morning, he found that he was alone. Sylvain was gone, as were their clothes that had been strewn across the floor. He winced as he sat up, his body furiously protesting even the tiniest of movements. Upon pulling himself upright, he spotted some items folded at the foot of the bed, topped with what appeared to be a note. He carefully inched himself closer, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before reading what had been messily scrawled on the paper.

_I’ll have your clothes back to you, cleaned as promised. Here’s something to wear in the meantime. I’ll be downstairs for a while. Feel free to say good morning (or afternoon, depending on when you wake up, sleepyhead.)_

_-Sylvain_

… _“Sleepyhead?" _ Linhardt’s brow scrunched in displeasure at the pet-name. How irritating. Sylvain’s affinity for teasing truly knew no bounds.

He set the note aside and examined the garb the nobleman had left for him. He unfolded a pair of briefs, along with dark red trousers, and a black turtleneck resembled the ones that knights wore beneath their armor. The palette of the ensemble reminded him of the signature colors seen on the banner of the Black Eagle house from years past, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Sylvain had chosen them for that exact reason. Whatever the case, the outfit didn’t exactly conform to Linhardt’s taste, but he was in no position to be picky.

He shed the sheets that swathed his body and shivered at the chill that met his skin. He hastily dressed himself, flinching and hissing at how his body objected. He found that Sylvain’s presumption about the differences in their sizes had been accurate. The  
clothes weren’t too terribly loose, but he would require a belt before he ventured out in public. Thankfully, Sylvain had anticipated that very need, as he’d left one wrapped beneath the stack of clothes. Linhardt tucked his shirt in as much as he could to make up for the excess fabric, and cuffed his sleeves to give his hands a bit more freedom. He returned to the head of the bed, rummaging through the blankets and pillows until he found his prized hairband. He did what he could to tidy his hair, raking his hands through the mess of knots that had formed overnight, but it seemed useless. He desperately needed a proper hairbrush if he hoped to salvage it. His hands had always gotten the job done, but after being tossed and rolled all night, there was only so much he could do.

With a disgruntled huff, he admitted defeat, deciding to tie it all up into a haphazard ponytail. He couldn’t fathom how disorderly he probably looked, and he decided it was best not to dwell on it. Shoving his boots onto his feet, he smoothed out his clothes one final time before leaving the room.

He could see the entire layout of the tavern below as he peered over the banister from the hallway. It was completely empty, save for a single, familiar redheaded figure seated alone at one of the tables. As he descended the stairs, Linhardt could see that Sylvain was reading something–a letter perhaps? Upon sensing his approach, the knight looked up to greet him with a warm grin, quickly folding whatever he was reading and stuffing it into a pocket.

“There you are,” he said as Linhardt took the seat across from him, “I was beginning to think that you were gonna stay in bed all day. Did you sleep well?”

Linhardt rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “About as well as can be expected.”

He heard something slide along the table, and looked down to see a cup of what appeared to be tea, still billowing a translucent cloud of steam. Murmuring his thanks, he took a cautious sip, savoring the heat that it dispelled through his body, though he barely managed to hide a grimace at the bitter flavor.

“Looks like my clothes aren’t too bad a fit,” Sylvain noted, his eyes scanning Linhardt’s form.

“I can’t say that they suit me very well, but I appreciate you letting me borrow them,” Linhardt said, holding his cup close so that he might prolong its warmth. He glanced up to find Sylvain still observing him, elbows propped on the table and fingers laced in front of his face. He looked like he was waiting for something, though Linhardt had no idea what. He’d just given his gratitude, what more could he want?

“You’re staring,” he said, brow furrowing. Sylvain blinked at him, but did not avert his eyes.

“Sorry, I think I’m still a bit tired myself,” he said, crossing his arms on the table, “Maybe I should’ve overslept with you.” Linhardt could tell that he wasn’t being entirely honest, but he wasn’t curious enough to press any further.

He let the conversation die with another sip of his tea, his mouth briefly twisting at the taste. Sylvain laughed across from him.

“Too sweet, or not sweet enough?”

“Not sweet enough,” Linhardt said just before sipping again, cueing another soft laugh from Sylvain.

“Sorry about that. I’ll get it right next time.”

_Next time._ The words echoed in Linhardt’s head. Did he really intend for this to happen again? Was he planning to make a habit of spending his nights and sharing his mornings with the Adrestian? Linhardt felt his cheeks grow a bit warm. He wasn’t completely opposed to the idea, but it felt a bit premature to make assumptions about any future encounters.

“How long do you plan on staying here?” Sylvain asked, sensing Linhardt’s apprehension. The bishop’s head fell backward, and he stared at the ceiling as he thought.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said distantly, “I’d say at least a week. Perhaps two. It depends on the supplies I’m able to procure and how quickly the weather changes.”

Linhardt’s head became level again, and he saw that the smile had vanished from Sylvain’s face, leaving something unreadable in its place.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Sylvain said, leaning back in his seat, “You really think you can handle the brunt of a Faerghus winter?”

Linhardt felt mildly offended. Did he think that he hadn’t considered the bitter cold he’d be faced with? His goal was to reach the northernmost regions of the country, perhaps venture into Sreng if needed. If he happened to freeze to death along the way, well…he could think of worse ways to die. He’d seen worse ways to die. Being lulled into eternal slumber by the frigid air would be a kindness compared to the end he was likely to meet if the Imperial army ever got ahold of him.

“I’d like to think that I stand some sort of chance,” he answered, abandoning his cup to cross his arms over his chest. A grin flashed across Sylvain’s face for a heartbeat before returning to its statue-esque blankness.

“Right, because you seemed so tenacious when you were shivering and clinging to me last night.”

Linhardt’s ears practically glowed red, and he dropped his gaze to stare into the contents of his half-empty cup.

“That’s only because your body is so unnaturally warm.” He heard Sylvain laugh heartily.

“Is that your way of telling me I’m hot?”

Linhardt lifted his eyes to glare venomously at the smug face looking back at him. Just as he’d thought before–Sylvain had a knack for teasing that managed to get under his skin in the worst ways imaginable.

“You’re truly insufferable,” he muttered. Sylvain shrugged in response.

“I’m ‘horrible’, I’m ‘insufferable’...but you haven’t ditched me yet, so just how awful can I be?”

Linhardt had no reply for him. It was true that the noble’s taunts were damn near intolerable, and had they come from anyone else, he would not have endured it. But, for whatever reason, Linhardt could not see it as cause enough to abandon Sylvain. He wondered why that was…

“If you have no other plans today,” Sylvain continued with a frustratingly casual tone, “care to run a few errands with me? It might be a good opportunity for you to get familiar with the town.”

Linhardt considered it. He was anxious to examine the wares that the shops had to offer. Maybe he’d even find a new tome or two if he was lucky. His hand stroked his kinked, unruly hair, reminding him that he probably looked disastrous.

“I’m not sure that I’m in any state to roam the streets,” he said, battling with a particularly troublesome knot in his locks. Sylvain’s eyes examined him, and his head tilted to the side confusedly.

“Why do you say that?”

“Are you kidding?” Linhardt asked, raising a brow, “I can’t possibly look anywhere near decent right now. My hair alone is cause enough to hide me away.”

Sylvain appeared genuinely surprised. His eyes darted about Linhardt’s features once more, as though he were searching for something he’d missed.

“Is that why you’ve tied it up like that?”

Linhardt nodded, still fumbling with the tangle.

“Do you want me to fix it for you?”

The Adrestian paused his actions. Did he mean…right then? In the middle of the tavern? Not that it was a particularly incriminating activity, but there was something oddly intimate about having his hair stroked and handled so casually by someone who had so thoroughly ravished him only hours before. Not that any passerbys could possibly know that, aside from whoever had the misfortune of staying in the room next to Sylvain’s.

Sylvain, taking Linhardt’s silence as approval, motioned for the mage to join him on his side of the table. Linhardt stood and walked to the opposite end, figuring that Sylvain would let him take his seat while the soldier rose to his feet. Much to his chagrin, Sylvain spread his legs wide, and patted the open space between them.

“You aren’t serious,” Linhardt said, deadpan. Sylvain met his gaze without missing a beat.

“I am.”

“What if someone comes in–“

“Who cares? We’re not doing anything wrong.”

_No_, Linhardt thought to himself, _it only feels like we are._ Unable to find the words to protest further, he exhaled a defeated sigh, faced away from Sylvain, and sat between his parted thighs.

As Sylvain moved to let loose the ribbon that held Linhardt’s hair, his chest pressed against the Adrestian’s back. Linhardt didn’t breathe, nor did he move his eyes from where they’d become fixed on the floor. He felt his hair fall limply onto his neck, and Sylvain raked his hands through the mess experimentally. His fingers caught almost instantly, but he did not force them through the tangles. Instead, Linhardt felt him section off a small portion, and weave his fingers through gently until they reached the ends without trouble.

“You’ve always kept your hair pretty long, haven’t you?” Sylvain said idly, taking a new section of Linhardt’s hair. The bishop gave a small nod, afraid of pulling his head too abruptly while the other’s fingers were delved in his locks.

“Have you ever thought about cutting it short?”

“I’ve considered it,” Linhardt admitted, “but short hair requires much more work to maintain. It’s easier to just let it grow.”

Sylvain hummed behind him as he successfully detangled another portion, and moved on to the next.

“I used to have to do this for Felix sometimes,” he said, his voice somehow making him sound miles apart from Linhardt, “I think his hair was finer than yours, though. It got messy really easily. Anytime we’d spar, he’d walk away with a rat’s nest or two.”

“I can’t imagine he was too pleased with this,” Linhardt commented as he felt Sylvain finish combing through a new section.

“He was kind of like you. He’d argue at first, make a few empty threats on my life, but when all was said and done, I think he appreciated it.” Linhardt could hear a smile molding the words as they left Sylvain’s mouth. “We didn’t have much toward the end of it all, but we had each other. Even though I never got to tell him just how much he meant to me, it’s comforting to think that he enjoyed those mundane moments as much as I did.”

Linhardt’s chest ached with sympathy. He, too, had treasured the quieter times he shared with Byleth above all else; the moments when they would share a meal, or when Byleth would listen intently as Linhardt rambled about his crest research, or when they’d retreat to his favorite hideaway to nap for hours on end. The rare occasions when he’d been gifted a taste of what a peaceful domestic life might have looked like for them were the moments he cherished most. Now, they were too bitter. They were nothing more than a reminder of what could have been. What almost was.

Linhardt was too preoccupied to notice that Sylvain’s fingers now ran through his hair without a single snag. The redhead did his best to recreate Linhardt’s typical half-up style, but could not for the life of him make it look right–Felix’s ponytail was one thing, but Linhardt’s longer, thicker hair and slightly more intricate style was an entirely different beast. Holding his ribbon, he reached around the bishop’s body to hold the piece of fabric in front of him. Linhardt blinked at it as he returned to the present.

“Er, I think you’ll have better luck doing the rest yourself,” Sylvain said, slightly embarrassed by his own ineptitude.

Linhardt took his hairband from the other man, and deftly tied half of his hair into a loose bun. Sylvain observed him, watching his long, slender fingers expertly twist and brush through his deep green locks. He really did have lovely hands. Sylvain thought about those same hands on his body: how they examined his scars, how they’d clung to him with such desperation, how tenderly they’d traced his crest. He thought about how he wanted those hands to be his alone, and how nice it would be if they never touched anyone else the way they’d touched him. He promptly rid himself of the possessive thought. It wasn’t possible. Linhardt had made it abundantly clear that he would never acknowledge Sylvain as anything other than a body to imitate Byleth. Besides, their time together was strictly limited. In about a week’s time, the Adrestian would set out on his own, quite possibly to die or never be seen again. Nevertheless, Sylvain intended to savor every second. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he might be able to convince Linhardt to extend his stay through the cold months…

As the mage lowered his hands from his head, Sylvain caught one of his wrists, causing the other to turn and look at him with curious surprise. Sylvain held his gaze as he pressed his lips against the back of his hand. He brushed over the bones of his knuckle and watched with suppressed delight as Linhardt nibbled on his lower lip, his cheeks appearing dusted with a rosy hue. Not only were his hands beautiful, but they were proving to be a particularly sensitive area. His ears, his neck, his hands... Sylvain wondered deviously where else his mouth could wander that would cause the other man to melt in his arms.

“Will you accompany me now, or is there some other reason you don’t want to be seen with me?” He said, his eyes swimming in the blue depths of Linhardt’s.

The younger man pulled his hand from Sylvain’s grip, eyeing him with a mix of contempt and wariness.

“Fine,” he said in submission. Rather pleased with himself, Sylvain grinned and stood from his chair, tugging Linhardt up with him.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Sylvain said, releasing Linhardt when they were both on their feet.

“Doubtful,” the mage answered begrudgingly as he straightened himself, his mood further dampened by the way his body screamed at him for being upright.

“What, you’d rather spend the whole day in bed?”

“Yes.”

“Without me?”

“Y–” Linhardt stopped himself as his head snapped toward Sylvain to deliver a look of irritation. The noble clutched his chest and pouted in feigned offence.

“Linhardt, I’m hurt! Is my company really so unpleasant?”

The Adrestian frowned in annoyance, “At present, yes.”

Sylvain dropped his act and laughed as he nudged Linhardt toward the doorway, “You’re cute.”

“You’re unbearable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> felt like a relatively uneventful chapter, but honestly I love writing dialogue for these two more than anything else. wish they'd had support convos, but what can ya do!! (write them myself.)


	7. Hidden

The weather was slightly warmer than it had been the day before, but not so warm that Linhardt could walk without huddling beside Sylvain. The sun remained shrouded by clouds that promised snowfall, dimming the daylight into a dusky shade. Linhardt glared up at them hatefully. Autumn had just begun, and already he longed for the warmth and brightness of spring.

“Still think you can endure Faerghus in the winter?” Sylvain jabbed from Linhardt’s side. The mage shot him a look of annoyance before pressing closer against him and his strange, but welcome body heat.

“I don’t know how I let you talk me into accompanying you,” he grumbled. Sylvain wrapped an arm around him, a gesture that Linhardt resisted to urge to reject. Gods, he was warm.

“All it takes is a kiss of your hand to make you amenable.”

Linhardt reflected on their time together–how Sylvain pressed his lips to his knuckle before asking the Adrestian to the baths, and again just before they set out only minutes ago. He’d hardly call the delicate touch of his lips a kiss, but it certainly was proving to be an effective method of persuasion. He held up one hand, flipping it over as if to examine it.

“Interesting,” Linhardt commented. Although he was less than thrilled about it, he’d learned something new about himself.

“I wonder if you have any other hidden switches I should know about,” Sylvain teased, his mouth just barely sweeping over the edge of Linhardt’s ear. The mage shuddered and pushed away from the other, only to be reigned back in by his powerful arm.

“Have you no self-control?” Linhardt scolded, casting a glare from the corner of his eye. Sylvain met it with his trademark, unperturbed grin.

“Sure I do,” he replied, unnervingly cheerful, “I just get too much joy from seeing you flustered.”

“Are you a sadist or something?”

“Possibly.”

The two of them walked in silence for a while, only breaking when Sylvain directed Linhardt to the apothecary he’d spotted upon his arrival.

“You are aware that I have no money at present, yes?”

Sylvain responded with a passive glance. “Who said you needed it?”

Though he was visibly perplexed, Sylvain did not spare him any elaboration. He silently ushered Linhardt through the door. It was a tiny establishment, with only a few shelves of wares. They were stocked sparingly with vials, jars, and miniature cloth bags. Nothing appeared to be labeled or organized in any particular fashion, meaning that if they wanted to inquire about anything, they had no choice but to consult someone. Although there did not appear to be anyone else present.

“Don’t worry, she’s around here somewhere,” Sylvain assured him, his eyes fixed on a doorway at the very back of the room.

Before Linhardt could ask who he was talking about, a young woman poked her head out from the opening, her face instantly glowing as she saw Sylvain. She nearly broke into a sprint as she came to meet the two of them. She was a bit homely; long, strawberry-blonde hair was coming undone from a single braid down her back, and she wore an apron stained with a variety of smudges in multiple earthy colors. While a bit disheveled, for which Linhardt had no room to judge her, she was not unattractive. Not at all, he thought, eyeing Sylvain with blatant suspicion. The knight paid him no mind, his softened gaze set on the girl in front of him.

“It’s great to see you again! How are you today?” She greeted him, sounding a bit out of breath, but undeniably excited. Sylvain smiled down at her warmly.

“I’m doing fine, thanks. Yourself?”

The woman hastily wiped her hands on her apron before folding them primly behind her back, “I’m doing very well, thank you!” She still had yet to give Linhardt so much as a glance, but he was too invested in observing their interaction to care. “Was there anything I could assist you with?”

“No, I’m alright for now,” he nodded toward Linhardt, whose eyes still flicked between the two of them questioningly, “My friend here could use some help though. He just came into town yesterday, would you mind showing him around?”

Having finally been made aware of his presence, the young shopkeeper gave Linhardt a double-take, scanning him up and down with an indecipherable expression before offering him a less enthused smile.

“Of course!” She said through a grin, watching with longing as Sylvain thanked her and left the two of them to browse on his own.

Linhardt asked the woman about various items, poultices, and vulneraries, to which she replied politely, pointing out a few of her materials. They chatted back and forth idly about the ingredients of her homemade concoctions, while Linhardt periodically surveyed Sylvain from a distance. At one point, he watched him pick up a tiny vial, twirling hit in his hand without even inspecting its contents or asking the girl what it was.

After a few more minutes of conversing with the young lady, Linhardt decided that it would be best to return at a later time with his own money. She assured him of her understanding, cutting off as her attention was suddenly caught by Sylvain, who’d rejoined the two of them.

“Did you find something you’d like to purchase?” She asked, her demeanor suddenly much perkier. Sylvain grinned and nodded, and the girl led him away to a counter at the opposite end of the room. Linhardt followed, but maintained his distance, curious as to what Sylvain was buying. He pretended to look around the shelves as he watched from the corner of his eye while the woman took the vial and flushed red. Her gaze quickly darted between Sylvain and Linhardt as she read the soldier the price. He slid down to prop himself on his elbows, and the girl anxiously followed his movements.

“Have you ever tried this stuff yourself?” Sylvain asked, his voice dropping. The shopkeeper shook her head quickly, avoiding the redhead’s eyes. Linhardt sympathized with her, but continued to watch them from afar.

“Really? I figured a girl as cute as yourself would have a line of suitors just dying to show you a good time.”

“You’re just saying that,” the girl replied, attempting to hide a timid smile.

“I’m serious!” Sylvain insistend with a laugh, “You’re always so sweet to your customers, and you’ve got a smile that could brighten even the darkest of days. I can’t believe the guys in this town aren’t outside fighting over you right now.”

Sylvain finally produced the funds that the woman had asked for, only for her to return half of it to him. The knight tilted his head at her.

“I thought you said-”

“It’s fine!” The girl interrupted with a smile, her cheeks still tinted pink, “This stuff is kind of overpriced. Besides, your visits are payment enough.”

Linhardt was both captivated and disgusted by the display. How Sylvain was able to play people so easily was beyond him, and yet, he understood all too well the hypnotic aura that the knight exuded.

The pattern repeated with every establishment they entered; a charming smile from Sylvain, followed by some flattering comment, and the finishing touch of a laugh that rang in the ears like a melody. He also found that the effects were not limited to young, virtuous damsels, as he’d managed to reduce the hardy town blacksmith to a sputtering, disordered mess with a single compliment. Every time, Linhardt looked on in fascination. It certainly was a bizarre phenomena, and what was even more peculiar was the way his heart skipped just watching Sylvain work his devious magic.

Stranger still was the sensation twisting in his core–a dark, somewhat sickening feeling that made him think that something might be living and crawling within his body, but he could not give it a name. It tempted him to move a little closer to, or even grasp Sylvain as his victims were showered with his attention, but he refrained, managing to maintain autonomy as the shadow beneath his skin compelled him otherwise.

“You certainly have a way with people,” Linhardt noted as the two of them exited their final stop. Sylvain chuckled.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he replied, “People like it when you make them feel special. They enjoy being the sole object of someone else’s attention, especially when that attention is given by an attractive person of high status.”

“That’s a bit conceited,” Linhardt said with a grimace.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

A realization suddenly struck Linhardt like a bolt, “Was that your mentality when you approached me last night?” He spoke without accusation, gazing at Sylvain with wide, curious eyes.

Sylvain looked back at the younger man from the corner of his eye, examining him before responding.

“Not really, no,” he finally said, “I wasn’t bargaining for anything with you. I wasn’t...er, after anything, if you know what I mean. I just saw a familiar face, so I started a conversation. And then I realized that I just really like you.”

The last sentence triggered a warmth in Linhardt’s chest, but he suppressed it promptly, “It’s hard to tell what’s genuine with you.” His words lacked the sting of insult, but Sylvain didn’t acknowledge them. His eyes became fixed ahead of him as the two continued their walk back to the inn.

A bit frustrated, Linhardt felt the dark, ugly sensation gnaw at him once more. He wasn’t certain that he fully believed Sylvain. Everything the knight had said about wanting to comfort Linhardt, and his willingness to be used as a tool for pleasure...there was no way to know if those words were honest, or if they were just a means to satisfy Sylvain’s own carnal desires. Perhaps the reason he hadn’t thrown Linhardt aside was because the mage had been the only poor soul in town foolish enough to hand himself over to the noble. It was difficult to think of any other reason why Sylvain had taken such a shine to him, aside from their shared misery, but that could all have been fabricated as well. There was no way to know what motivated the devious knight. Unless…

“Why am I different?” Linhardt asked suddenly, his feet halting.

Sylvain stopped as well, and turned to look at his companion with confusion, “What?”

“You said that you have nothing to gain from me, but I’ve watched you treat all those people in the same manner as when you first approached me. And with them, you only sought personal profit. You implement the exact same tactics, yet you claim to have no ulterior motive,” Linhardt’s voice remained untainted by emotion, but he anxiously toyed with the oversized sleeves of his shirt, “I highly doubt that your attachment to me is so uncomplicated. I suppose I just…don’t understand why you’re so adamant about retaining my company when you could just as easily have anyone else–someone with a lighter emotional burden, I’m sure. I’m certainly not special.”

Sylvain’s confusion had morphed into something else. Something that caused his brow to furrow and his jaw to tighten. Before Linhardt could identify the expression he wore, the knight was upon him, and a strong hand carefully, but earnestly, gripped one of his wrists as he pulled Linhardt into a tight alley between two buildings. Once out of sight, he pinned the mage, the glow of his amber eyes piercing through the shadows that shrouded them.

“You really think that you’re no different from the rest of them?” Sylvain asked, although he didn’t give Linhardt an opportunity to respond before hooking a finger around the collar of the mage’s shirt to reveal the bruises he’d made the night before, “Do you know how hard it’s been to stop myself from admiring these marks that _I_ gave you?” He dove into the exposed area, lips brushing over each dark patch reminiscently, “Do you know how it’s been driving me mad to see you in my clothes?”

He exhaled deeply into Linhardt’s neck. The Adrestian’s breath abandoned him as Sylvain’s free hand slipped under his shirt to explore his abdomen. He was mortified by the idea of being caught by some unsuspecting townsfolk, but Sylvain’s touch was like venom in his veins, and he was all too willing to succumb.

“All I’ve been able to think about is how good you feel...how your body fit with mine, how sweet your cries are, how pretty you look underneath me,” Linhardt gasped as he felt Sylvain’s thumb brush his nipple, and his hands attempted to clench the wood of the building behind him.

“You’ve been the only thing on my mind since the moment I saw you,” Sylvain continued, his voice growing increasingly haggard.

Linhardt moaned softly as the other’s teeth found his earlobe and bit down gently. The hand that held his collar left it in favor of gripping the bishop’s thigh, raising it so that his leg was nearly hooked around Sylvain’s body. From this new proximity, the hardness in Sylvain’s pants met Linhardt’s, and the mage had to wrap his arms around the other’s neck to keep himself from collapsing at the surge it sent through his body. Sylvain sighed into his ear, resisting to urge to grind against Linhardt again.

“Do you want me?” He asked breathily.

The question momentarily brought Linhardt back to his senses. It felt like a trap. One which he would have to very cautiously avert, likely at the cost of his dignity. Not that he had much to lose these days.

“I want you...inside me…” he answered weakly, but tactfully, praying it was close enough to the reply that Sylvain had wanted.

It must have been. He groaned in what sounded like approval as he removed his hand from Linhardt’s chest to fumble with his belt. Once unlatched, he gently turned the mage so that he could brace himself against the wall behind him. He felt Sylvain tug his pants down just far enough to free his erection and expose his ass, and he winced at the cold air that greeted him. Two large, warm hands cupped and squeezed his rear appreciatively, eliciting a reluctant moan from the Adrestian.

“You know I enjoy hearing you,” Sylvain murmured from behind him, “but if anyone were to catch us out here, we might find ourselves in some very real trouble.”

Shamed by the thought, Linhardt pressed his lips into a thin line, unsure of his own ability to stifle himself. His doubt only increased as Sylvain gave his bottom another exuberant squeeze, and he barely managed to contain a yelp that rose in this throat. Mercifully, Sylvains hands vanished from his body. He could hear the man rummaging for something, and turned slightly just in time to see him pull a small vial from his pocket–the very same vial he’d seen him purchase earlier that day. Curious, he observed while Sylvain popped the cap, and dribbled a modest amount of clear, thick liquid on his fingers. Linhardt was able to deduce the rest, and his ass produced a dull throb as if to remind him that he was still recovering from the previous night.

Even so, he could not find it in himself to care. He wanted this. He _needed_ this. So rapidly was he becoming reliant upon Sylvain’s talent for emptying his mind and replacing his heaviest thoughts with all the pleasures and tenderness that he had not felt since Byleth’s death. Adding to this budding addiction was Sylvain’s own readiness–or perhaps even his desire–to give it. For some unfathomable reason, the knight had found something unique in Linhardt. The mage was almost aware of what it was. He could feel the reason lurking just out of reach of his thoughts. Of course, at the moment, he was amazed that he could even recall his own name.

Sylvains fingers penetrated him with ease, sliding in and out of his entrance with restrained movements before performing the same scissor-like motion they had the evening before. Feeling the lewd sensation of himself being stretched, Linhardt had to press his mouth into the crook of his arm to muffle a whine. It wasn’t without pain, but his body acted of its own accord; hips thrusting in time with Sylvain’s hands, hands balling into fists against the decaying wood, and knees trembling as they threatened to give out from under him.

“You feel so damn good,” Sylvain grunted behind him, his free hand squeezing Linhardt’s hip, “I hope you won’t let anyone else touch you the way I do…”

Linhardt was becoming too engulfed by his own arousal to register the dangerous undertone of Sylvain’s words. He was content to ignore it and press himself backward in an effort to take the other man’s fingers deeper, urging them to hit the spot that washed his vision white. Already Sylvain was becoming restless, as the hand on his hip gripped him with bruising force while the fingers inside him began to move more furiously.

“Spread your legs wider,” Sylvain said, suddenly retracting both hands from Linhardt. The mage did as he was told, expanding his stance into what he imagined was a marvelously indecent pose.

There was a metallic jingle of Sylvain’s belt being undone, followed by the sound of friction against flesh as the knight stroked himself fully erect. Linhardt felt as though embers had fallen onto his cheeks. If anyone were to turn the corner and be met with this scene... Goddess help them.

Sylvain’s tip against his entrance forced Linhardt to focus on the present situation rather than the hypothetical scenario. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his arm, readying himself both mentally and physically as Sylvain eased himself into Linhardt. The bishop bit back a cry as he felt his body once again protest being filled by the other’s considerable size. Sylvain inhaled sharply, forcing himself to pause as Linhardt adjusted. Though he wasn’t sure why, he found that his self-control was now less assured than it had been before. Perhaps it was because of his frustrated state, but he was all too tempted to take Linhardt by the hips and fuck him without care.

Still, he managed to refrain, only resuming motion when he felt the mage begin to relax around his length. While he tried to mind his pace, his initial thrusts were demanding. Eager. And Linhardt could sense it. He drowned his cries in his arm, finding it more and more difficult as Sylvain’s movements started to feel greedy, and his own body responded with radiating waves of pleasure. Weakening quickly, his arm slipped away from his face, and he was left to send lecherous whines echoing through the air. Nearly letting himself be absorbed by their sound, Sylvain quickly stopped and reached around Linhardt’s body to cover his mouth.

“Honestly, it’s like you _want_ us to get caught,” Sylvain teased as he attempted to catch his breath, “I never pegged you for a deviant, Linhardt.”

The Adrestian scowled over his shoulder, unnerved by both the remark and the cease of movement.

“Bite my hand,” Sylvain said, offering the appendage to Linhardt, “It’ll help.”

Linhardt glanced reluctantly between Sylvain and his hand. Before he had a chance to object, the noble continued his movements, bucking into him with renewed energy. Feeling a moan rise to his throat, Linhardt took Sylvain’s fingers into his mouth, his teeth lightly clamping down on the digits. He heard the redhead hiss, and felt his pace accelerate a bit. Did he… like this…? Linhardt bit down once more, pleased to find that Sylvain’s hips struck him slightly harder in turn, just enough to make the mage’s cock twitch with anticipation.

His eyes rolled shut as he closed his mouth around his fingers, and he settled into a familiar ritual. He wove his tongue between them impassionedly as he had many times before. Granted these were not the hands he knew nor desired, but it was still nostalgic. Perhaps even a bit comforting.

“Fuck...” Sylvain’s voice sounded pained as he felt the threads of control slip away from him, and he reached around Linhardt to take hold of the bishop’s length, pumping him in time with his thrusts.

Linhardt moaned desperately around the noble’s fingers, his teeth once again pressing into his skin. His mind began to crumble as he was overcome by the sensations wracking his body. Without thought, he mumbled incoherently. Sylvain barely registered the sound of his voice, much less the words he was attempting to form. He was only able to discern two syllables. He could guess the name to which they belonged, but for just a moment, he pretended that they were his. Dangerous as it was to indulge the fantasy, he imagined that it was his own name being spoken so wantonly against his skin.

His body quivered as he tried to imagine the sound of it–not as he’d heard it before, but when it was cried out in the throes of euphoria. His hips snapped against Linhardt with frenzied movements while he stroked the mage’s cock urgently. Linhardt writhed under him, his own hips bucking as his orgasm crashed over him with the intensity of a tidal wave. He spilled onto the ground, his teeth digging into Sylvain’s fingers as he attempted to subdue a series of noisy, satiated cries. Sylvain had to muffle his own sighs into the back of the bishop’s shoulder. He inhaled deeply, smelling his own scent blended with Linhardt’s.

“You smell like me,” Sylvain grumbled, his own climax fast approaching, “You have my marks on your body… Even if I charm a stranger or two, you’re the only one I’m honest with… You’re the only one that matters... ”

He heard Linhardt hum beneath him before his sight and mind were blurred by the haze of ecstasy that flooded him.

“_You’re mine._”

He released inside Linhardt with a final, forceful thrust, panting arduously against the back of the bishop’s neck as he waited for his senses to return to him.

“Sylvain,” he almost didn’t hear Linhardt’s soft voice over the roar of his pulse in his ears. He perked up, a bit livened by hearing his name, not as he had been imagining, but enticed by it nonetheless. He found the other looking at him with confusion, and a bit of concern.

“I am not yours.”

He knew that. He was fully aware that Linhardt was far too devoted to Byleth to consider giving himself to anyone else, and that the only connection between him and Sylvain was one based on mutual grief and loneliness. Furthermore, they had only found each other less than a day ago. So why did Linhardt’s words sting as they did? Why did they carve Sylvain’s chest hollow, and leave him with an icy chill in his bones?

“Right,” he mumbled, pulling out of the Adrestian, “I’m sorry.”

Linhardt didn’t respond. He slowly and wordlessly tidied himself, his eyes never leaving Sylvain. The noble wished that they would. He tucked himself back into his pants, trying fruitlessly to brush off the embarrassment he felt at his own careless mutterings. Before exiting the alley, he turned to the other, forcing himself to meet Linhardt’s still-wary eyes.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, speaking with as much reassurance as he could muster, “I just…got a little caught up in the moment I guess. I know that you-” he had to pause to check himself, making sure that he truly understood his own words before he spoke them. “I know you don’t want me. At least not like that.”

He said no more, but held Linhardt’s gaze for a moment longer. He didn’t expect a reply, or even acknowledgement. Just as he turned to walk away, he felt hesitant fingers touch his hand–the same hand that bore the mage’s bitemarks. He looked down to watch Linhardt trace his pads over the indentations he’d left.

“Did I hurt you?”

Sylvain’s eyes seared through him. Not with anger or frustration, but with the determination of a person trying to read something written in a foreign language; staring at it until it made sense.

“No,” he answered, curling his fingers in Linhardt’s grasp and meeting his eyes again, “you couldn’t hurt me if you tried.” It was an outright lie. Linhardt had, indeed, hurt him. But it wasn’t intentional, or even significant, and therefore not worth admitting. Still, it was a lie all the same.

It was brief, but there was an unmistakable flash of relief in the bishop’s eyes as he seemed to squeeze Sylvain’s hand, though it was so gentle that it might have been his imagination. He let go of the soldier, and walked ahead of him to reenter the main road. He stopped and turned just as he was exposed to the faint sunlight.

“You mentioned that my hands are sensitive,” he said flatly, “It seems that yours are, as well.”

Sylvain blinked at him. He wasn’t teasing, as he spoke with a purely informative tone. But something about his words seemed…playful? Or maybe it was just his innocence shining through. Either way, Sylvain felt his fingertips tingle in response.

“Are they really?” He said with a dry chuckle, walking to stand at Linhardt’s side, “I hadn’t noticed.”

_Maybe they were just numb until they touched you._

He didn’t dare speak the thought aloud. He’d already slipped up once that day, and he’d learned his lesson. This was temporary. Linhardt was a momentary distraction from a torturous reality, and he didn’t want to be anything more. It had been arrogant to think that a single day together would change anything. Linhardt was out of reach, and Sylvain was still weighed down by grief of his own. They were both doomed to exist as halves of separate wholes, and no matter how hard they might try, their pieces could never match up. Not Linhardt was even willing to try.

_That’s right_, Sylvain thought to himself as they walked in silence, _He doesn’t want anyone else._ He frowned deeply, casting a solemn glance at Linhardt, who stared ahead.

_I’m unworthy of him anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, did I really not update at all in march?? it's fine. it was an absolutely chaotic month, as i'm sure it was for pretty much everyone. that said, i hope that you, your families and loved ones are all staying safe and healthy! thank you so much for your continued support of this fic, you have no idea how much every comment/kudos/bookmark/sub means to me!
> 
> (also plugging my twitter: @ alter_altar. locked but accepting reqs)


	8. Presence

_There was blood again. It soaked his clothes, his skin, the floors where he knelt... It was everywhere. The stench of it thickened the air, suffocating Linhardt, who was already fighting for every breath he took._

** _He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead._ **

_He could think nothing else. He was incapable of producing any other thought._

_“You’re the only one left...” Who was speaking? Why did their voice sicken him so? “You can’t even stand, can you?”_

** _Stop…Stop talking…_ **

_“I’m sorry, Linhardt.” Were they…weeping? How dare they. What right did they have to shed tears? “You know this is not the outcome I wanted. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”_

_“‘Wasn’t…supposed to be like this’…?” He echoed, his mind hopelessly detached from reality. “No…I suppose it wasn’t…”_

_He heard something that sounded like stones grinding together. His eyes wandered and found the ancient weapon that writhed nauseatingly in its weilder’s grasp, still dripping with the blood of its last victim. He could practically hear it demanding to be bathed in his, as well. From there, his gaze fell to the crumpled figure just a few feet away. His whole body ached just from looking at it. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sob and scream and fight the person who stood looking down on him, but his body was completely devoid of energy– of will._

_“It won’t have been in vain,” they said, as though that sentiment would bring him some sort of comfort. He lacked the strength to gag._

_“There is no soul left in that shell of yours, is there?” he murmured, still staring with a glazed expression at the corpse on the floor with him. The person said nothing, but he heard their grip upon their weapon tighten._

_“I really do wish that there had been another path. One that we all could have shared,” they said softly, almost with gentleness, as they slowly raised their axe._

_Unafraid of the end that was surely coming, Linhardt at last lifted his gaze to meet the tear-filled lavender eyes that looked upon him so mournfully._

_“You are a truly **wretched** creature.”_

_\- - -_

Gasping, Lindhardt jolted upright in bed. His lungs burned from where he’d been holding his breath in his sleep, and his whole body quaked. He struggled for air, instinctively pulling his knees to his chest as he attempted to quell his shaking. His eyes swept the room around him, identifying objects as he saw them in an effort to ground his senses. They moved from the sheets on his body, to the door, to the clothes on the floor, to the familiar form asleep at his side.

It had been just over a week since Linhardt’s arrival in town, and nearly every night thereafter had been spent with Sylvain. Even on the rare occasions when they retired to separate rooms, they’d still made a habit of at least sharing their first and last meals of the day. Despite their constant companionship, their conversations since the first day had declined in quality. There had been no mention of Byleth nor Felix, and they’d instead opted to talk about more mundane topics, like new wares at the shops, and interesting tidbits from whatever study or book Linhardt happened to be reading. Also absent from their chats was Linhardt’s arrangements for the future. The weather had only been worsening lately–not only was it steadily getting colder, but daily flurries and small, but cumulative snowfalls served to foreshadow a potentially treacherous winter. The reality of having to face such horrid conditions was beginning to set in, and what was more, his willingness to resume his lonely journey was beginning to falter. It had been rather pleasant to have consistent company. He’d almost forgotten the comfort and warmth of spending his days with someone whose presence he genuinely enjoyed. It was a feeling that presently seemed far beyond his reach.

Linhardt curled tighter on himself as his shaking refused to subside. It felt violent, more so than any other time before. He couldn’t tell if he was causing the whole bed to tremble with him, but he attempted to stifle it as much as he could. His eyes continued scanning the room for objects to name; the floorboards, the bedpost, the unlit candle, the nightstand it sat upon, the drawn curtains… but it was useless. He rested his forehead atop his knees, feeling an oncoming sob of frustration and agony. He had not suffered a nightmare since the last night of his travels. He’d thought–hoped–that maybe they had left him for good, or that they at least would lessen in severity. How disheartening it felt to find that he was wrong. His breathing threatened to come in hysteric convulsions as he tried to subdue tears, and the knot in his throat wound itself tighter. He wished that he was still dreaming, that he would open his eyes any moment to find himself calm and still. With a single, strangled weep, that small hope was diminished, and his tentative grip on composure seemed ready to slip.

“Hey,” a tired voice sounded from his side, “Are you okay?”

A hand on the small of his back caused him to flinch, and he peeked down to see Sylvain, rolled over and looking at him with sleepy, troubled eyes. Linhardt could barely speak a response over the tightness in his throat.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice unable to rise above a hoarse whisper, “I can’t stop shivering.”

More concerned now, Sylvain slowly sat himself up, removing his hand from Linhardt’s back as he did so. “Are you cold again?”

Had he been in a more stable condition, Linhardt might have scoffed at the other man. Currently, though, he was only able to offer a weak shake of the head.

“No… Bad dream.”

The words seemed to fully awaken Sylvain, as he straightened his posture and inched closer to Linhardt. He didn’t speak for a moment, only observing the Adrestian with a fixed stare. Even in the dark, his gaze was crushing. Tears stung Linhardt’s eyes, and he buried his face once more. He was embarrassed enough by his own inability to control his emotions, the last thing he needed was someone else to witness his pathetic state.

“Is there anything I can do?” Sylvain finally asked, speaking with a tenderness that had yet been unheard by Linhardt. A bit surprised by the question, the mage peered up from his huddled position. There was an aching in the other’s expression now; an undefinable pain blended with sympathy as his eyes captured Linhardt’s.

“It’s never been this bad,” was all he could say. He could not properly verbalize the anguish that threatened to swallow him whole. The fear in his words and the torment on his face begged Sylvain to provide some sort of answer, “It hurts.”

In a blink, Sylvain’s arms were around Linhardt. One encircled his waist, while the other pressed his head against the knight’s chest in a firm, but pacifying hold. Linhardt’s eyes went wide. How many times now had his skin felt this incredible warmth? Yet it still, somehow, fascinated him. Momentarily distracted from his misery, he relaxed against the other man’s body, his limbs slowly unfolding from their rigid positions.

“You know,” Sylvain said softly after feeling Linhardt’s trembles grow weaker, “I have nightmares too.”

Linhardt said nothing.

“To be honest, I don’t think I’ve had a single restful night since Felix died. Every time I close my eyes, that day replays in my head. I see him on the ground, I see the arrow in his chest… It never fails,” his exhaustion manifested in his voice, “I know how awful it is to be forced to relive those moments–how terrible it is to not feel safe in your own head. It’s torture.”

Tears welled in Linhardt’s eyes once more.

“Lately though,” Sylvain continued, “whenever I wake up, panicked and scared, I’ve had you beside me. I don’t know what it is… but when I open my eyes from those terrifying dreams and I see you asleep at my side, so peaceful and pristine, I’m calm. It’s soothing to know that there’s someone next to me who _knows_ and _understands_ everything I feel and everything I’ve been through; to know there’s a chance that I haven’t lost everything, and to know that I’m not alone.” His chin rested upon the mage’s head. “You’re not alone either.”

Linhardt inhaled sharply as he, again, was overcome by the urge to cry. Not in the wake of hysteria as he’d originally feared, but for something else. Something he was not quite able to place.

“You know what I’m gonna say, right?” Sylvain said, feeling Linhardt hiccup in his arms as he fought, “You don’t have to hold back.”

So Linhardt cried. His eyes overflowed, sending tear after tear rushing down his face until it was thoroughly soaked, while he attempted to muffle his pitiful sobs in the other’s bare chest with little success. It was an honest, messy cry, and Sylvain held him through it all, his hand delicately stroking Linhardt’s hair as he wept. He didn’t know how long it went on, his mind emptied itself into utter blankness as he unburdened himself, his senses finally returning when his body could no longer supply tears.

“How did you know that I dreamed of Byleth?” He asked, completely limp in Sylvain’s arms.

“Because he’s the only one you seem to cry over.”

Linhardt wiped the wetness from his cheeks, and looked down to where it glistened on his fingers.

_Perhaps not._

Wary hands pressed against Sylvain’s chest as Linhardt gently separated himself, just enough for them to face each other. The knight seemed to drink in the sight of him, his gold eyes lingering on each one of Linhardt’s disheveled features; his hair clinging to his face, his weary eyes, his reddened cheeks, his still-pouting lips. Linhardt watched his gaze flit rapidly over him, finding himself transfixed by their eager movements and the way they examined him with such fervor. His own eyes fell to Sylvain’s mouth as the noble unconsciously wet his lips. For just a heartbeat, Linhardt wanted to press them against his own. He wanted to know their feel, their taste. He wanted to devour them and be devoured by them. For that single, fleeting moment, he wanted Sylvain. He inadvertently leaned closer to the knight, eyes still locked on the lips that seemed to await him so anxiously. Sylvain was a statue. He dared not even blink, afraid that the slightest movement might startle the bishop. Linhardt’s eyelids began to fall, just a hair’s breadth away from closing the space between them–from doing the one thing Linhardt feared to do.

_Right... fear._

At the last second, Linhardt craned his neck so that his lips, instead, pressed against Sylvain’s cheek. He remained for a while, feeling a bit guilty for exciting the soldier, but surely less guilty than he would have felt had he submitted to the temptation. He broke away, finding that Sylvain was looking at him with perplexed, dazed eyes.

“Thank you,” Linhardt said before freeing himself from the other’s hold. Sylvain did not reply. He appeared to be frozen as his mind struggled to process the trickery he’d just witnessed. Seeing as his companion had nothing more to say, Linhardt laid back down, facing away from Sylvain.

The soldier, still stuck in the same position, could only stare at the back of his head. His heart had not stopped pounding since the moment Linhardt’s eyes had looked so intently upon his lips. Sylvain had wanted to weave a hand into his hair, and kiss him with an open mouth right then and there. For a second, he’d truly thought that he might get the opportunity. Alas, it was not meant to be. His fingers touched the spot where Linhardt’s lips had met his cheek. Even though it was not what he’d wanted, Sylvain could not bring himself to feel disappointed. It had been the first time Linhardt had ever kissed him–not with his eyes closed, thinking about and wishing for someone else, but him. Sylvain felt a small grin tug the corners of his mouth. If there was one thing to be said about the mage, it was that he knew how to toy with a heart, whether he intended to or not.

Feeling an odd sense of satisfaction, Sylvain settled back into the mattress, facing Linhardt’s back, but maintaining a respectful distance.

“I think,” Linhardt said suddenly, “I may stay here a bit longer.”

Sylvain closed his eyes, smiling softly at nothing. “I’m glad,” he answered with a hushed voice.

_It would have been too painful to let go of you so soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kind of a shorter chapter, but thank you so so so much for all the support! please remember to keep taking care yourselves and your loved ones during this time!
> 
> enjoy this soft moment as well. things are starting to leak through the cracks.
> 
> (twitter: @ alter_altar)


	9. Overflow

Although Linhardt was content in his decision to delay his departure, he was otherwise plagued by a feeling of uneasiness. The skies seemed to grow grayer and grayer with each passing day, depriving the earth of sunlight as the temperatures seemed to plummet endlessly. It had reached a point where Linhardt refused to venture outside of the inn, as the cold bit him to the bone immediately upon exposure.

Not only that, but he found that his company indoors did not feel as pleasant as it had previously. Sylvain was ever-present, seeming to hover over him as a vulture might with a carcass. After his tearful night, now more than a week past, Linhardt had come to the conclusion that it was safer to keep the noble at arm’s length. Even though he was not leaving anytime soon, the day when he would inevitably resume his journey drew closer with every passing moment. It seemed like Sylvain, too, was growing closer in turn. There was no place for such attachments in the future that Linhardt had been imagining for himself all these months, and his reluctance to part with Sylvain had already swayed him once. He could not allow it to happen again. Despite his apparent omnipresence, Linhardt did not speak to him, refusing to even engage in the idle causerie they’d enjoyed before. He would not so much as look at the soldier– even when their bodies were entwined together, tangled in sheets, his eyes were deliberately closed or fixed elsewhere. Sylvain had surely noticed the dramatic change in him, but it only seemed to encourage him to make himself harder to ignore.

His tenacity was admirable, but troublesome. It weighed on Linhardt’s mind as he sat at the small desk in the secluded silence of his room. For the moment, he was alone. Sylvain had made his semi-daily trip around the shops, and Linhardt had used his absence as an opportunity to shut himself away in the meantime. He stared blankly at the open book in front of him. The cover had displayed some long-winded title about the construction of Arianrhod, and he’d sat down with the intention of immersing himself in its contents, but it was proving to be an impossible feat. The words met his eyes, but not his brain, no matter how many times he skimmed the pages. With a defeated sigh, he rubbed his temples, his gaze drifting to the small calendar propped on the edge of the desk. Sylvain had given it to him on the third day of his stay, delivering it with some cheeky remark about Linhardt no longer needing to ask him what day it was. He scowled at it now, glaring resentfully at the number printed on the day.

‘Red Wolf Moon. Day 6.’

_Tomorrow is my birthday._

He knew it was coming. Every time he went to cross a date off the page, he did so with contempt, quite literally watching the tiny ‘7’ creep closer. He did not want to age. Realistically he became a little older every day, but something about birthdays– the officiality they entailed– was terrifying to him now. Being twenty-two meant that he was still, in one respect, the same man Byleth had known. His age was just about the only aspect of himself that had not been affected by his former professor’s death. He wanted to hold on to that number. He did not want to change anymore than he already had. Besides, he had no cause whatsoever to celebrate surviving one more year–surviving the massacre in Enbarr. If anything, he felt he should be punished.

He closed the book in front of him, unable to focus on anything aside from his own guilt. All at once, he was reminded of why he’d been drawn to Sylvain in the first place–his knack for helping Linhardt forget. He did not chase the thought, reminding himself that such indulgence would be unwise in the long-run. Perhaps he would take a trip to the bar that night. He was not a heavy, nor frequent drinker, but if nothing else, a bit of alcohol might help him sleep. Still, he was not so self-loathing as to subject himself to the pitiful experience of drinking alone. Hesitant as he was to do it, it would be in his best interest to invite Sylvain. The knight was likely to tail him there anyway.

As if on cue, Linhardt heard heavy footsteps approach from down the hall. He stood from his seat, padding to the door and opening it just enough that he could peek out. Sure enough, Sylvain was approaching his room, newly-polished armor in hand. He was watching his feet as they carried him, appearing deep in thought as he often did when he was unaware that he was being observed.

“Sylvain,” Linhardt said as the soldier reached his own door.

He seemed to brighten the moment he heard the other’s voice, looking up quickly to find the mage peering through his cracked doorway. The subtle joy on his face caused guilt to tug at Linhardt’s stomach all over again.

“I was planning to visit the tavern this evening if you would like to join me.”

Sylvain, made a bit hopeful by the gesture, nodded. “Sure.”

Linhardt nodded back, closing his door before any more conversation could ensue. He listened as Sylvain was still for a moment longer, eventually hearing him open and close the door to his room. Linhardt exhaled, leaning against the wall by his doorframe. He decided right then that he would not tell Sylvain about his birthday. He would not disclose his worries or his pain. He did not want to create any unnecessary intimacy, yet he was thankful that he would not be alone that night.

\- - -

It was uncharacteristic of Linhardt to hand out invitations, especially for something so casual as getting a drink. Sylvain had come to learn that he was the type who sort of… expected people to know what he wanted. He was good at communicating without really communicating. It gave Sylvain the impression that he might have been a bit spoiled as a child. It wouldn’t have been surprising given his lineage, but he almost wanted to ask. Almost.

He was, admittedly, somewhat reluctant to say anything to the mage at the moment. He’d been verbally shunning Sylvain for the past week, leading the noble to believe that he’d said or done something that upset Linhardt, though he had no idea what. He could only trace it back to the night when Linhardt had cried into him as though he were a handkerchief. He played their exchange countless times over in his head–from the second he awoke to the mage curled in a shuddering ball, to his kiss of Sylvain’s cheek, to him agreeing not to venture out into the cold. It all seemed harmless. But from the following day onward, they’d hardly spoken, not for Sylvain’s lack of trying. Despite his persistent greetings, comments, and even teases, Linhardt seemed set on ignoring him. He acted as though Sylvain was not there, somehow managing to make him feel unseen even in their closer moments. So when Linhardt had asked for his company, he thought that perhaps he was finally in the clear– that whatever misdeed he’d committed had been forgiven.

He was quickly realizing that may not have been the case. Night had fallen, and he’d joined Linhardt in the tavern as agreed, in the very same spot where they’d initially met, but not a single word had been spoken in the half hour since they’d sat down. He was still working on his first ale while Linhardt was on his second. He’d been watching with hidden amusement as the bishop took quick, brave gulps, only to cringe immediately afterward. It never failed.

“For someone who doesn’t like the taste of alcohol, you sure are hellbent on drinking it,” he remarked, looking on as Linhardt took a swig and retracted his head like a tortoise upon swallowing. The Adrestian shot him a disdainful glare, but said nothing. At least he’d given some form of acknowledgement; more than he’d provided in quite some time.

“Are you ever gonna tell me what I’ve done wrong?” Sylvain asked, propping his head on one hand while he observed Linhardt. He was half-kidding, but the bishop’s eyes grew momentarily panicked at the question, as though he hadn’t anticipated a confrontation.

“You didn’t–” he started, pausing as he scrambled to articulate a sentence, “You haven’t done anything wrong, I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

As far as reassurance went, it was flimsy at best, but Sylvain decided against pressing him further. He took a drink as Linhardt did the same, maintaining a straight face while the other could not. He did his best not to laugh at the way Linhardt’s brows scrunched and his mouth twisted. It seemed like he was purposefully forcing himself to suffer the less-than-appealing flavor as he drained his second glass.

“Do you like the cold?”

The question seemed to spring from nowhere, catching Sylvain by surprise. Linhardt did not look at him upon asking, preferring to stare into his empty cup.

“Do I like the cold?” Sylvain repeated, looking at Linhardt, who looked at nothing. “I wouldn’t say that I _like_ it, but I’m definitely used to it. Gautier territory has one of the worst climates in all of Fodlan–I was born in the cold. I don’t hold up so well in the heat, though.”

Linhardt grunted softly, still avoiding Sylvain’s eyes.

“That’s funny,” he said, though his voice came off unamused. “Hevring territory is near the coast of Adrestia. It was quite warm in the spring and summer, but the winters were fairly mild. I’m finding that I hate real cold rather vehemently.” He motioned for the barkeep to bring him another drink. “I don’t often reminisce about my homeland, but I do miss the weather and the scenery. There were vast mountains, abundant rivers, and lush forests… but my favorite thing was always the breeze that would come off the sea. It was salty and cool, so gentle against the skin, like receiving a kiss from the earth itself.” His face became solemn, heartbroken even, as he continued. “I’d truly hoped that I might feel it again someday.”

He stopped talking when a full glass replaced his empty one, and he promptly took a generous gulp. Sylvain’s gaze had not left him once.

“You still might,” he offered carefully, but Linhardt didn’t seem to hear him.

“I was travelling to Gautier territory before I met you here,” he said after an attempt at clearing the bitter aftertaste from his throat. “Perhaps it’s for the best that I didn’t get there before winter set in.”

Sylvain gave a dry laugh. “It may have been. Who knows if there’s anything left of it.”

Linhardt finally turned to look at the knight. “What do you mean by that?”

“I haven’t been home in weeks,” he replied, his voice hollow, “not since Felix died. I have no idea what sort of state the place is in.”

Linhardt looked hopelessly confused, his eyes rapidly scanning Sylvain’s features. “Why would you not return home?”

Sylvain shrugged, folding both of his arms on the counter and looking toward the ceiling. “What would have been the point? I was only there because the houses loyal to the crown were trying to maintain some semblance of order within the remains of the Kingdom. Once House Fraldarius fell, all hope of that was shattered. It’s entirely possible that House Gautier was the Empire’s next target–actually, I’d be shocked if it wasn’t.”

His response did not satiate Linhardt’s uncertainty. “What have you been doing all this time?”

Sylvain tilted his head to look at the mage once more. “I buried Felix, and then I came here to figure out my next move.”

He could feel Linhardt searching his eyes for something, though he could not guess what. The Adrestian eventually gave a resigned sigh, and took another drink.

“So what is your ‘next move’ then?” he asked, clasping his glass with both hands.

Sylvain blinked at him, unsure whether it was information that ought to be shared. But seeing as how the smaller man was well on his way to drunkeness, it was probably safer to tell him now rather than later– when he was sober and capable of utilizing the full force of his wit to tear him down.

“I’m going to kill Edelgard.”

Having spoken while Linhardt was mid-drink, the bishop nearly choked at his reply. He swallowed what he could of his ale before coughing several times, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He then looked at Sylvain, who had not moved from his position, with enlarged blue eyes.

“You’re… _what_?”

“I’m going to kill her,” the knight said firmly, assuredly, as though it were a completely rational answer.

Linhardt could only gape, and Sylvain could practically see his mind working to comprehend his words. His mouth twitched as if he were about to laugh before he shut it and clenched his jaw.

“You cannot be serious,” he said, scouring Sylvain’s face for any signal that he might be joking. “Please, tell me you’re not serious!” The noble was unresponsive, his eyes steadily holding Linhardt’s. The mage appeared hurt, like he had done him some horrible offense. “Sylvain, listen to me carefully–you can’t kill her, she will tear you apart before you ever get the chance. It would be a complete waste of your time, and of your life.” His voice was shaking. “I have seen firsthand what she’s capable of. She will cut you down without batting an eye.”

Sylvain leaned a little closer to Linhardt, close enough that he could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“I’m not afraid of her. It has to be done, and I’m the only one left who stands some sort of chance.” He brushed a loose strand of hair from Linhardt’s face. “I’ll be dishonoring everyone we’ve lost if I don’t at least try.”

Linhardt nearly allowed himself to lean into the other’s touch before abruptly turning away. Taking the hint, Sylvain pulled back, watching as the other came to terms with his decision. They sat in silence for more than a minute, Linhardt chugging the remainder of his ale before speaking again.

“Why does no one seem to value their own life?” He muttered, probably not intending for his companion to hear.

“What do you mean?” Sylvain asked. Linhardt didn’t answer. Instead, he rounded on the soldier.

“You’re even more dense than I thought,” he said, his speech growing slow and slurred. Sylvain, taken aback by his hostile demeanor, raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“You’re really going to ignore me and go through with this idiodic, self-inflicted execution of yours?”

“Ignore _you_?” Sylvain returned, stifling a flabbergasted laugh. “You mean like you’ve been ignoring me for the past week?”

Linhardt shook his head adamantly, “I told you I wasn’t ignoring you.”

Sylvain, realizing just how drunk the other was becoming, softened his tone, “No, you told me that I hadn’t done anything wrong. If you’re going to lie about it, at least be consistent.”

Linhardt, visibly displeased with either Sylvain or himself, gave up, resting his chin in his hand and signaling to be given another ale.

“You should really slow down,” the knight cautioned, examining the younger man’s flushed face, “or drink some water. I get the feeling you aren’t an experienced drunk.”

Linhardt shot him a suspicious glance. “And you are?”

“More experienced than you, at least.”

Linhardt groaned, disregarding Sylvain’s advice and deliberately throwing back his drink the second it was set in front of him.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Silence, once again, settled between them. Sylvain watched Linhardt down the rest of his drink and then another before slumping in his seat to lay his head on the counter, his eyes droopy and his face rosy. Sylvain took it upon himself to cut him off. He sighed before hanging Linhardt’s arm over his shoulders, supporting him by the waist, and heaving the mage to his feet. He dragged his lanky, limp body to the stairs, murmuring an apology before scooping up his legs and carrying him up the steps and down the hallway. He nudged the door to Linhardt’s room open with his hip, surprised to find that it had not been shut all the way.

“You should really close your door,” he said, “Who knows what kinds of shady people might slip in here.”

“Like you?” Linhardt mumbled back. Sylvain gave a soft laugh.

“Yeah, like me.”

He kicked the door shut behind him, and gently laid the Adrestian on his bed. He sat on the edge, shimmying Linhardt's foot out of his boot while the mage looked down at him.

“Are we going to fuck now?”

Hearing him speak with such profanity made Sylvain sputter.

“No, not when you’re like this,” he replied as he successfully removed one shoe and set it on the floor.

Linhardt hummed, observing Sylvain’s hands as they set to work on his other boot. Once done, he scooted up the length of the mattress, closer to Linhardt’s head.

“Do you want me to take your clothes off, or would you rather sleep with them on?”

Linhardt tugged lazily at his shirt. “Take this off, please.”

Sylvain did as he requested, grateful that the mage had not layered his tops as he often did. He started from the collar and went button by button, only undoing half of it before Linhardt suddenly grabbed his wrist, and dragged his hand to his exposed chest. His skin was cool under Sylvain’s touch, just as it had been the first night he held him. Why the mage’s body was so incapable of retaining warmth was beyond him.

“Do you feel it?” Linhardt spoke softly, looking up at Sylvain from beneath heavy eyelids.

“Feel what?” he asked, too entranced by the other’s intoxicated expression to give attention to anything else.

“My heartbeat–do you feel it?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed his thumb over the spot where the organ steadily pulsed within his body.

“That means I’m alive,” Linhardt said, still holding Sylvain’s hand in place.

Sylvain laughed quietly. “You’re really wasted, huh?”

Linhardt’s brows knit together frustratedly. “No, listen,” he urged, “_I’m alive._ I was but a single person in a whole army that fought against Edelgard, and now I am the only one left.”

Sylvain pulled his hand away, and Linhardt’s rested in its place.

“She’ll kill you, Sylvain,” he said, his voice becoming strained.

“I don’t get it… I don’t understand you,” the knight responded, growing tired of Linhardt’s incessant objections. “All you’ve done is push me away. Lately, I’m lucky if you even look at me. And now that I’ve told you what I plan to do once I’m out of your life, you suddenly can’t stand the thought of losing me?”

Linhardt lifted himself up on his elbows. “Because I don’t want you to die.”

“Oh,” Sylvain scoffed, “So all it takes to make you care about me is to put my life at risk.”

Linhardt glared at him through hazy eyes. “Do you honestly think that I don’t care about you?”

Sylvain held his gaze unflinchingly. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice turning icy. “You only seem interested in using my body for comfort–which I was fine with, I told you as much–but did it occur to you that maybe I care about more than just fucking you? Did you really not think about that when I held you the other night; when I told you how I feel when you lie next to me? When I wanted _so badly_ to kiss you?”

Linhardt was seething now. “Of course it occurred to me,” he snapped. “Why do you think I began to push you away?”

“'_Began_?’” Sylvain repeated with disbelief, “You’ve been shutting me out this whole time. That day in the alley, you were quick to remind me that I’ll never be more than a body to you.”

He could tell that his words pierced Linhardt. The bishop stared at him helplessly, struggling and failing repeatedly to sit himself upright.

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice cracking. “I told you that I didn’t want to love anyone else. You knew that from the start, it’s not fair that you expected something to change for you.”

“No, what isn’t fair is you treating me like I don’t exist when I'm not inside you. What isn't fair is you not giving me an explanation, and then denying it when I ask you why.”

It was his turn to take Linhardt by the wrist. He took hold of him, pulling him up, and placing the younger man’s hand on his own chest. “I’m alive, too,” he said, his voice threatening to tremble. “My heart beats and breaks, just like yours. It’s not fair that I’m being punished because you’re afraid of letting yourself feel something for me.”

Sylvain could tell that Linhardt was actively battling with the alcohol bogging down his thoughts. His eyes were fervent but his mouth was slow to deliver the words he so desperately wanted to speak.

“That’s not… I don’t…” he stammered sluggishly. “I’m not afraid…”

“You are,” Sylvain’s voice became a bit gentler. He knew it was probably useless to argue with someone in such a compromised state, but his emotions–the very emotions he’d been trying so hard to keep from boiling over for weeks–were beginning to overpower him. “You can’t honestly tell me that your feelings haven’t changed at all since we met.” His grip on the Adrestian’s wrist tightened a bit. “Mine sure as hell have.”

Linhardt’s head tilted, causing loose strands of hair to drape over his face as he tried to make sense of Sylvain’s words.

“Have you really fallen for me?” he asked hoarsely.

Sylvain inhaled deeply.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Yeah, I think I have.”

Several emotions passed along Linhardt’s features; surprise, confusion, betrayal, and anger were among the most prominent.

“You hardly know me,” he said holding his head straight and shaking it slowly. Disapprovingly.

“I _do_ know you,” Sylvain insisted, his other hand landing on top of where Linhardt’s still rested on his chest. “I know the most painful parts of your past. I know where you come from. I know what your insecurities are. I know what your fears are. I know who you loved. I know your body. The only thing that I don’t know is your heart.” He leaned forward until his forehead was pressed against Linhardt’s. “But I want to,” he said with a hushed, pleading voice. “I really, _really_ want to. I’m sorry if that isn’t what you wanted, and I’m sorry if it hurts you, but I can’t just play along anymore.”

The mage’s eyes became foggy, not with the blur of intoxication, but with the swell of incoming tears.

“Don’t,” he said through the constriction in his throat. “Please, don’t tell me that.”

“I had to,” Sylvain said, matching Linhardt’s volume. “Just like you have to tell me.”

The bishop bit down on his quivering lip.

“Tell me right now that you don’t care about me–that you don’t want me–and I’ll never bother you again. Or,” his nose brushed the other’s, “tell me that you feel the same way I do.”

Linhardt shook his head, lacking the clarity and focus to reign in his turbulent emotions.

“Please,” Sylvain begged. “I need you to say it.”

“It’s not fair,” Linhardt rasped.

“I know it’s not.”

“I can’t,” he said, barely suppressing a sob.

“You can’t what?”

“I _can’t_,” he seemed stuck on the words as he repeated them with mounting sorrow. Sylvain stared unyieldingly into Linhardt’s flooded eyes, only able to find pain in their blue depths.

He released the other’s hand and pulled away, watching him sink back into the mattress and hide his face in a pillow. Part of him felt guilty for piling more misery onto the other man when he likely already felt physically terrible. He laid beside Linhardt, combing his fingers through his hair while he sobbed shallowly into the pillow, occasionally murmuring the same two words as though he were speaking to someone else. His cries gradually became weaker, ceasing altogether as his breathing was regulated by sleep’s merciful arrival. Sylvain watched him. He remembered the first time he’d seen Linhardt’s sleeping face; their first night together. Somehow he found him even lovelier now. He’d known then that the bishop was out of his reach. He’d known that it was a relationship doomed to end before it could ever truly begin. Yet somewhere along the way, he’d been careless enough to let himself be swept up in the fantasy of it.

“I guess I’m really not much of a comfort in the end, huh? Maybe I was stupid for thinking that you would ever want me,” Sylvain whispered, drying the wet streaks that Linhardt’s tears had left on his face. “I’m sorry that I made you cry… but I couldn’t let myself stay silent and live with the torture of never knowing. Not again.”

His jaw tightened as he fended off his own tears. He pressed a kiss to Linhardt’s head, letting his soothing, familiar scent overcome him.

“Thank you for letting me say what I couldn’t before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you so much for your support, and please continue taking care of yourselves!


	10. Fragility

The throbbing pain in his skull was the first thing to draw Linhardt’s attention as he was dragged to wakefulness. It radiated from his temples, pounding in sync with his pulse and enhancing the nausea that already sat heavy as a stone in his gut. He only opened his eyes to a squint, worried that exposing them to any degree of brightness might spur his already-unbearable headache. To his relief, his room was almost pitch-dark due in part to his drawn curtains as well as the fact that the sun had yet to fully rise. Through the darkness, he was able to distinguish a form at his bedside. The scarlet of their hair, visible through even the shadows, betrayed Sylvain. He had borrowed the chair from Linhardt’s desk, setting it so that it’s back faced the mage, while he was seated the wrong way–also facing Linhardt–with his arms crossed atop the wooden backing and his head resting upon them.

In a rush that caused Linhardt’s head to pang a bit harder, he remembered the events of the previous night; Sylvain’s self-given mission, his own pleas against it, and the mess that followed… Linhardt felt sorrow settle over him like a dense fog. What he’d feared had come to pass. He’d prayed that it had been paranoia or his imagination, but it seemed that Sylvain had been nurturing affections for Linhardt in hopes that the Adrestian might return them. The pain in his head quickly found its way to his chest at the memory of the knight looking upon him with such desperate, longing eyes, as though his life truly did depend upon Linhardt’s response. That, coupled with his failure to persuade him not to confront Edelgard, burdened the bishop with the sense that he was killing Sylvain. To think that one more person might suffer the same fate as everyone he’d already lost… Linhardt shifted uneasily in bed, his sleepy eyes still trained on Sylvain, who appeared to be asleep himself.

He stared for minute after minute, his heart telling him to cry, but his body far too frail to obey. He wanted to apologize to him. He wanted to make him understand why he wasn’t able to let himself fall for Sylvain as the soldier had fallen for him–to explain that it wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate his feelings, and it wasn’t that he didn’t care for him. The truth was so far from that. He simply… couldn’t. Once he acknowledged the emotions that had gradually arisen inside him, stirring and fluttering every time he so much as looked at Sylvain, they would be made real. And he would be a traitor; disgracing and abandoning the memory of the only person he’d ever truly, undeniably loved.

He shifted again, laying face down in his pillow and groaning painedly. He heard movement from his bedside, and revealed one eye to see that Sylvain was awake. He probably had been all through the night, as he wore a look of exhaustion that Linhardt had not seen in him since they first met.

“You’re up,” Sylvain said, the fatigue in his voice matching his appearance. Linhardt could not find the strength in himself to respond with more than a single nod.

“How’re you feeling?”

Linhardt grunted.

“Shitty, huh?”

He nodded again.

Sylvain gave a sympathetic smile, gesturing with his head to Linhardt’s nightstand. “I took the liberty of bringing you water. Just do me a favor and tell me if you’re about to puke your guts out though, I’d like to get out of range before you do.”

Linhardt grimaced at the other loathsomely, curling protectively against his stomach at the unsettling sensations his words invoked. Sylvain chuckled weakly.

“Sorry, sorry. That’s probably the last thing you wanna hear right now.” He reached out one hand and tucked a lock of hair behind Linhardt’s ear. He flinched at the contact, but Sylvain didn’t seem to notice. “Are you able to sit up?”

The Adrestian agonized over the mere thought of such strenuous movement, and answered with a muffled “I don’t know.” Nevertheless, he tried, moving slowly and shakily as a person four times his age might.

Age... right. It was officially his birthday now, as if he needed one more reason to feel sick.

He sat somewhat upright, leaning heavily on the headboard behind him. Sylvain retrieved the glass on his nightstand and offered it to him. “Drink,” he said firmly, but caringly, “you’re dehydrated.”

Linhardt bit back to urge to counter that he knew how hangovers worked. He specialized in healing, after all (and he’d certainly nursed Caspar enough times following his overzealous post-battle revels to know how to remedy the effects). Lacking the strength to snap at him, he took the glass, looking with uncertainty at its contents before cautiously lifting it to his lips. It was pleasantly cold, and it soothed his parched throat as he took a few wary sips before handing the cup back to Sylvain. Neither of them spoke for a while. Linhardt was still attempting to rise above his pain and nausea to full self-awareness as Sylvain’s eyes bore holes into his body.

“It’s really early,” Sylvain finally said as he reached out again to rest his hand over one of Linhardt’s, stroking it softly with his thumb as the bishop inhaled sharply at the contact. “You should try to sleep some more.”

Linhardt didn’t say anything. His eyes were fixed upon where his hand was overlapped by Sylvain’s. His skin tingled beneath it, like he was being subjected to a thousand tiny static-shocks at once. Despite the hollow feeling in his chest, his heart raced. Sylvain’s hands had held him countless times before, but never had he felt like this–the barest, most innocent touch overwhelming both his senses and his emotions.

“It hurts,” he croaked through the stubborn dryness in his throat.

Sylvain’s brows lowered in concern. “What does?”

Linhardt motioned with his eyes to where their hands were connected. “It hurts when you touch me.”

The knight swiftly withdrew his hand. Distinct heartache manifested in his features, but he promptly replaced it with a small, weary smile.

“Sorry… you probably don't want my hands on you anymore, do you?”

_No, it’s not that_, Linhardt thought as his freed hand nervously clutched the sheets. He very nearly said the words aloud, until Sylvain spoke again.

“I’m really sorry about last night,” he said, his eyes downcast, “I didn’t mean to pile everything on you like that. I just… it was eating away at me, you know?” He looked toward Linhardt for confirmation. He so badly wanted to assure him that he did, indeed, understand, but he could not pull the words from his body. Seeing that he was not going to get a response, Sylvain looked to the floor again. “I don’t regret telling you how I feel, though. Hell, I don’t regret _feeling_ the way I feel. I’m just sorry if it caused you unnecessary pain. Despite what you may think, it was never my intention to hurt you. That’s the last thing I would ever want.” He looked to Linhardt again. Even through the dark, the mage could see the beginnings of tears lining his eyes. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? You’ve become so important to me in such a short period of time.”

Linhardt had nothing to say in return–there was nothing he _could_ say. He felt horrible in every conceivable sense. Anything he said, any consolation he tried to offer, would only make him feel worse. Sylvain must have expected as much, as he did not let his eyes linger on the other for too long, instead gazing at something beyond Linhardt’s sight.

“Anyway, you won’t have to put up with me for much longer,” Sylvain assured him ominously.

He felt the blood freeze in his veins. Linhardt did not have to guess what those words implied, but the knowledge made him feel queasier.

“You can’t,” he objected, his voice coming out as a rather mangled sound. Sylvain did not look at him.

“Please, don’t start with that,” he said with a sigh, sounding more tired than irritated. “You’ve said your piece, and I know you think it’s useless, but I’ve made up my mind already. There’s nothing you could say that would stop me.” Linhardt had a feeling that that wasn’t true, but he held his tongue. “I'm honestly not telling you this so that we can argue about it again. I just wanted you to be aware in case I suddenly disappear.”

“You would leave without saying goodbye?” Linhardt asked quietly, hoping that the sting he felt could not be detected in the question. Sylvain spared him a single, curious glance.

“Would you be able to let me go otherwise?”

Again, he’d staged his words as though they were a trap. Fortunately, Linhardt was not easy prey. He did not reply, letting silence be his answer rather than saying what he knew to be true. That no, he could not let him go; that he would beg and argue and do everything in his power to stop him; that he’d sooner wound Sylvain himself to keep him from leaving than let Aymr so much as graze him. No. Instead, he skirted the question altogether.

“When do you intend to depart?”

Sylvain blinked at nothing. “As soon as I’m prepared, I guess.”

Of course he would withhold such pertinent information. From the sound of it, Sylvain intended to simply vanish. Linhardt wondered if there would be any trace of him at all once he’d left, any scrap proof that he’d ever been there. He recalled Sylvain’s theory about his home being wiped out, and was met with an abrupt, horrifying realization that if Sylvain were to be killed, there would be no one left to mourn him–to even remember him. No one except Linhardt.

Suddenly he felt as though an invisible force were bearing down on him. He already carried the memories of so many others. One more person, one he particularly cherished, would surely be too much for him. In his mind’s eye, he saw the bloodshed again. He saw the palace floors splattered with red. He saw Byleth’s glazed eyes upon him, frozen with eternal dread. He saw Sylvain, with his hand still tightly closed around the Lance of Ruin, blood seeping from beneath his armor as he hemorrhaged from an unseen wound…

He quickly clasped a hand over his mouth as he dry-heaved, the pathetic state of his body unable to tolerate the gruesome images that his brain conjured. Thankfully, his stomach was too empty to do anything but threaten him.

“Are you okay?” Sylvain asked, eyeing the mage with blatant pity.

“No, not really,” Linhardt replied, his head falling back against the headboard.

“What the hell was it that drove you to drink like that last night?”

The Adrestian turned to look at him, tiredness and defeat dominating his features. “Today is my birthday.”

Sylvain appeared momentarily puzzled, furrowing his brow and cocking his head.

“So… were you celebrating or something?”

Linhardt shook his head, not sure how to properly communicate exactly why he’d felt the need to drink himself into oblivion. Mercifully, his silence was enough to give Sylvain a general idea. His expression relaxed, morphing into compassion.

“Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry…”

“For what?” Linhardt replied dully. “It’s not your fault.”

Sylvain shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess I just don’t like the idea of you being so miserable on your birthday. Part of me feels a little guilty about it.”

Linhardt scoffed. “Don’t give yourself too much credit. I have my own reasons for being miserable.”

“Anything you’d care to talk about?”

Linhardt threw the soldier a look of torment, silently pleading with him. He didn’t want to reopen the wound. He didn’t want to cry anymore. He didn’t want to trigger another argument that he was doomed to lose.

“I should have died that day,” was all he said. Sylvain’s face crumbled as he looked at him. It was impossible to tell if it was frustration or sorrow that he wore, but it was more emotion than Linhardt cared to see. The knight reached out as if to hold his hand before stopping himself and retracting it once more.

“Don’t say that,” he said. “You have no idea how grateful I am to have found you here. Even if it was short-lived, I got to feel some shred of happiness again when I was with you. I’d like to think that you were happy too, Linhardt. If only for a single moment. I’m glad that I got to exist in a world where I knew you–a world where you were alive.”

Linhardt looked at him mournfully. “You’re speaking as though you’ve already died.”

Sylvain said nothing, his eyes drifting over the other’s face as though he were contemplating something. “Don’t get mad, okay?”

Before Linhardt could ask what he meant, Sylvain stood from his chair, sitting instead on the edge of the bed just as he had the night before. He rested his hands on either side of Linhardt’s head, sending an electric surge through the mage’s nerves once more. He tilted the younger man’s head down to place a kiss just above his forehead, pressing his lips for more than a few seconds. While the sensation of the soldier’s hands on his skin made him ache all over, Linhardt raised his own hands to hold them, grasping them with all the strength he had.

“Please,” he said, in a final attempt to sway Sylvain. “_Please_ don’t go.”

Sylvain was quiet. He’d stopped kissing Linhardt, but he lingered so that the bishop might hold onto him for a while longer.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “Take care of yourself before you worry about me.”

Linhardt squeezed his hands. He wanted to protest, even though he was painfully aware of how futile it was. His body, however, was ready to collapse. Reluctantly, he released Sylvain, and the noble surrendered his hold as well. Linhardt slowly descended back into the mattress, watching Sylvain as if he might flee the second he looked away. For the moment, he seemed happy to stay right where he was.

“Close your eyes,” he said softly.

Linhardt hesitated. “Will you still be here when I open them?”

Sylvain gave him a broken smile. “Yeah, I’ll be here.”

The sadness in his voice did not inspire confidence, yet Linhardt had no choice but to believe him. While skeptical, he did as Sylvain said, allowing his eyelids to fall. He hoped that drowsiness would not come. He prayed that he might defy it, just this once. But his efforts were in vain. The exhaustion in his body spread to his brain, and he felt himself drifting into unconsciousness.

Sylvain watched him all the while. He did not avert his gaze until the rise and fall of Linhardt’s chest settled into a steady, even rhythm. He sighed, simultaneously wanting to curl up next to him, and being too afraid to touch him. He hadn’t seen a wink of sleep that night, forfeiting his rest so that he could watch over Linhardt.

“I guess we’ve both got a pretty awful day ahead of us, don’t we?” He asked, not expecting an answer; more to check that he was really asleep. He did not respond, to Sylvain’s relief as well his dismay.

_Don’t get all depressed now_, he commanded himself._ If he were awake, this would be infinitely more difficult than it already is._

His touch light as a feather, Sylvain brushed the back of his hand over Linhardt’s cheek, marvelling at the silken feel of his skin. His heart throbbed in his chest as he thought that it might be the last time he ever felt it. As desperately as he wanted to remain there, with Linhardt, it hurt far too much. If Edelgard did not kill him, the torture of pining for someone so far beyond his reach surely would.

“I want you to know that I’m doing this for both of us–for both of _them_,” he said, knowing that even if Linhardt heard him, his words would provide little comfort. Burdened with the awareness that it might be his final goodbye, he placed a gentle kiss on Linhardt’s temple. “I hope that you can forgive me one day,” Sylvain breathed against him.

Wanting to leave before his resolve could falter, he stood from the bed, adjusting the blankets over Linhardt’s body before making the arduous trek to the door. He allowed himself one more look at the mage, lying peacefully in his bed. He made a silent wish for that peace to last–for Linhardt to find whatever tranquility and freedom he was looking for. More than that, he hoped that they might meet again, in a world where they were not cursed with grief, and where the cause of that grief did not sit triumphantly upon some distant throne. More determined than ever before, Sylvain quietly closed the door to Linhardt’s room.

_You said you miss your home, right?_ He thought, conviction blazing like a flame in his bones. _I want you to see it again. I want you to show it to me. I want to keep you warm in the winters, and nap with you through the summers. I want to kiss you. I want to love you. _He trembled_. The chance to know a future with you is worth dying for._

\- - -

By the time Linhardt regained consciousness, the afternoon had come and gone. Even through the shield of his curtains and the mask of cloud cover, he could tell that the sunlight was preparing to fade. His body felt like it weighed several tons as he laboriously sat himself up. The pain in his head had eased, if only marginally, and he was acutely aware of the emptiness in his stomach.

_You need to eat_, he thought with displeasure. _You need to eat and bathe before the day is done._ Still groggy, he slid himself out of bed, unsurprised to find that Sylvain was not around. _He was awake all night. He probably grew tired of watching you and decided to get some sleep. As he should._

Linhardt went through the exhausting motions of changing his clothes, and fixing himself to the best of his abilities before exiting his room. He left his door cracked, hoping that either of the owners might freshen his bedding while he was away. As he began his walk down the hall, he paused immediately upon passing Sylvain’s room. His door was pulled to as well, a bit odd considering he’d nagged Linhardt about doing just that the night before. Linhardt looked back to the sliver of space between the door and the frame. He silently debated whether or not he should steal a peek into Sylvain’s room. On one hand, he wanted to make sure that the knight was, indeed, sleeping within, but on the other hand, Sylvain might get the wrong impression if he were to awake and find the Adrestian staring at him through the doorway. Or perhaps he would accuse him of being one of those “shady people” he’d alluded to before. That is, if Sylvain was even there.

Linhardt felt his belly churn. He suddenly wasn’t sure that he _wanted_ to know if he’d remained, as he said he would. In the furthest recesses of his mind, he was grimly, terrifyingly aware of the sight he would be met with. Still, he muted his intuition, as another part of him had wholeheartedly believed Sylvain when he said that he would still be there when Linhardt woke. After all the time they’d spent together, after the earnest, heartsick confession Sylvain had given, he had great difficulty imagining that the noble would simply leave–would simply abandon him. Linhardt shook his head, feeling his brain rattle in his skull as he did.

_You are not his to abandon, remember?_ He thought, turning to approach the entrance of the room. _What difference does it make if he decided to leave?_

It was easy to think about it with such passiveness, but he could not deny the way he quivered as his fingertips carefully pushed the door open just a bit wider. And he could not deny his heart’s failure to beat as he peered inside.

The first thing he noticed was how clean the room was–spotless, even. Anytime Linhardt had seen it, there had been clothes littering the floors, unidentified papers strewn over the desk, and weapons propped haphazardly against the walls. It was all gone now. The floors were bare. The wood of the desk was fully visible. The bed was unoccupied. Everything was perfectly organized, almost sickeningly so, as though the prior mess had been nothing but an illusion–like Sylvain’s presence had been all too easy to eradicate.

Linhardt opened the door to its full extent, entering with absentminded steps. For a moment he thought he might be dreaming. It seemed impossible for a person, along with every hint of their existence, to be erased so thoroughly. His feet brought him to Sylvain’s bed, so neatly made, as though no soul had ever laid upon it; had ever made love in its expanse. Whether it was from exhaustion or anguish, he did not know, but Linhardt’s knees buckled underneath him, and he fell to a kneel beside the bed. His arms reached out over the blankets, gathering them in his palms as his mind grappled with the reality of the soldier’s absence.

Loneliness gripped him with overwhelming force. The feeling of desolation made him colder and weaker than he already was. He hated it. He hated Sylvain for breaking his word, he hated himself for feeling so hurt by it, and he hated that he couldn’t explain _why_ it hurt him so badly. What did it matter if Sylvain had lied to him? What did it matter if he refused to heed his warnings and set out on a suicide mission? What did it matter if he never saw him again?

It was then that Sylvain’s words from earlier in the day echoed in his mind. '_It’s crazy, isn’t it? You’ve become so important to me in such a short period of time_.' As undesired as it was, empathy erupted in his chest.

“You’re a damned liar,” Linhardt cursed, gritting his teeth as tears blurred his vision. “If I’m so important, why did you leave me?”

He answered himself with another question.

_If he was so important, why didn’t you tell him?_

He knew why; it simply hurt too much. It was far too painful to admit to himself that there was someone with the potential to match, or–Goddess forbid–surpass his affection for Byleth. With that admission came the vulnerability and the fear of losing Sylvain just as he’d lost his beloved professor. Though the pain Linhardt felt in that moment, having lost him after so forcefully shoving him away, was insurmountably worse. The idea that Sylvain would die believing that there was no place for him in Linhardt’s heart was excruciating.

The bishop released a broken sob. The impulsive part of him demanded that he pursue Sylvain. It was an irrational, desperate voice screaming for him to correct this mistake, no matter what it took. His body, however, was unable to do anything but weep. He’d cried more in the past week than he had since Byleth’s passing. Tears were all he had left: no home, no family, no friends, no Byleth, and now, no Sylvain. There was no embrace to comfort him, no otherworldly warmth to surround him, no lips to lull him into placidity. He was alone with his grief, left to be swallowed into its void. And swallow him it did.

He sobbed for hours, only looking up when the reddish glow of dusk poured from the window. He still clung to the blankets on the bed, having pulled them from their crisp folds and tucks. The hammering in his head had returned with a vengeance and his eyes stung unforgivingly, but the rest of him was numb; terrifyingly and blissfully numb. It was not acceptance that calmed him, rather he hovered in limbo between it and despair.

“I called you so many terrible things,” Linhardt said lifelessly. “I said you were horrible and insufferable… perhaps those words are better suited for me.” He pulled the blankets against his face. “I should have been honest. I should have told you that you were important to me, too… that you were all I had… that I need you.” He stared out the window, letting the rare sight of the sun burn his eyes.

“I should have told you that I was falling in love with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so SO much for all the love on ch. 9!! i'm sorry that 10 just kinda kicks you while you're down, but we'll be on the mend soon, i promise. 
> 
> please keep looking after yourselves and your loved ones. and as usual, thank you for reading and supporting!


	11. Stained

How could he have been so wrong?

By all calculations, he should have had the upper hand in this fight–familiar terrain, weather in which he thrived, an enemy without reinforcements…the odds could not have been more in his favor. Yet there Sylvain stood, gasping for air, only able to keep himself standing by leaning upon the Lance of Ruin. Although he’d been thoroughly bruised and battered, he was too overrun with adrenaline to register any pain. Fatigue weighed upon him heavier than anything.

“I was kinda hoping that the luxury of unopposed leadership would’ve turned you into a pushover,” Sylvain jabbed between breaths.

Edelgard, sweat coating her face and blood dripping from a single cut on her cheek, huffed. He could tell that she was tiring, but she was still in undeniably better shape than him. “No such luck, I’m afraid.”

They dueled in the outskirts of Fhirdiad. Edelgard had marched to the former Kingdom capitol weeks ago for some purpose that he did not know, nor care about. He’d observed her since her arrival, patiently awaiting a moment when she was not surrounded by Imperial soldiers, and camping outside the city walls until the fortuitous hour arrived. At last, it had. The young Emperor had ventured well outside the gates, all alone, cursing the snow that piled up to her calves. He would not get a more perfect opportunity–or so he’d thought.

While the odds seemed stacked against her, Edelgard had not allowed Sylvain to land a single blow after his initial strike aimed at her head, only earning him the small wound upon her cheek. Despite the weight of Aymr, her extravagant robes, and the blanket of snow on the ground, she was shockingly agile. Not only that, but her stamina was remarkable as well. Sylvain was quickly learning how it was she was able to eliminate the entirety of the church’s army. Well…nearly the entirety.

“Considering the fate that befell your brother, I would have thought that you’d be a bit more sympathetic of my goals,” Edelgard commented, adjusting her grip on her axe. “It saddens me that you instead chose to align with the institution responsible for molding that fate.”

Sylvain groaned as he levelled his stance. “You really ought to know better than to insert yourself into someone else’s familial affairs, _your majesty_.” He practically spat the last two words, his hand tightening around the very weapon that his brother once held. “I’m not about to play the politics game with you. I’d rather just slit your throat and be done with it.”

Edelgard seemed to brace herself. “You sound like Dimitri. Are you really so eager to meet the same end as your king?”  
Sylvain did not answer. He lunged forward, swinging his lance in hopes of slicing his opponent’s neck. Once again, she proved too quick for him. She skidded aside, watching the spear of his weapon glide past her. Sylvain swiftly gripped the shaft of his weapon with both hands, anticipating a timely counter from Edelgard. As expected, the Emperor swung her axe from over her shoulder. Sylvain attempted to sidestep, but he was not as fast as his adversary. One of the bone-like spikes of the blade struck the armor covering his forearm, easily penetrating it to meet the skin underneath. Sylvain winced, shuffling backward as red droplets fell from the wound to stain the snow. His arm trembled, but he was in no position to tend to it at the moment. Edelgard would hardly grant him a chance to examine the damage to his body, as she’d already spun to deliver another blow. Sylvain, becoming increasingly fueled by raw panic, stumbled out of range in the nick of time. His opponent, recovering from making two consecutive strikes, had a split second of vulnerability, and the knight was determined to seize it. In a desperate move, he kicked her torso, sending her to the ground. There it was–an opening.

He hurried to where she landed, placing his foot on her abdomen to pin her down. Finally. Finally the end was within reach. One more attack, and it would all be over. Fodlan would be freed. His friends and family would at last be avenged. The future he’d envisioned would be secured. He held his lance with both hands, raising it high above his head. One motion, one definitive strike was all it would take…

There was a loud, metallic shattering sound. He could not move. No matter how he willed it, his body would not listen, and his heart and mind both raced at the sudden paralysis. His eyes darted madly, witnessing the smug defiance on Edelgard’s face before drawing a line from there to her outstretched arm, to where her hand was closed around the hilt of Aymr. Then he saw it. The spined blade was only partially visible, as it had become lodged into his side. He thought, or rather hoped, that his armor might have protected him, until he felt warmth begin to saturate his clothing and flow from the trunk of his body. Despite that, he could not feel the blade in him. Even when Edelgard violently yanked her axe from his flesh, there was no pain. His grip on the Lance of Ruin loosened and his arms fell to his sides as he staggered off of her. One hand gingerly touched the wound, and crimson dripped from his fingers as he pulled away.

“Facing me alone was reckless, Sylvain. Even with your relic,” Edelgard said, slowly rising to her feet. Her voice sounded muffled in Sylvains ears. Through his blurring vision He could see her approaching him, slowly, the intent to kill gleaming in her eyes.

_Move_, his brain screamed, _you have to move!_

In a shaky, graceless movement, he raised his lance once more. Edelgard, assuming that he was preparing to make a charge, halted and tensed. Perfect. Sylvain hurled the Lance of Ruin toward her, watching with morbid delight as it pierced her right shoulder. The Emperor cried out in pain, gritting her teeth and looking at the weapon with narrowed eyes. Sylvain could not feel if he was smirking, but he certainly hoped that he was. His legs quivered before giving out altogether, and he collapsed into the snow. Finally he felt something. He felt the wet and the cold against his skin, and he felt it sting against his open wounds. He watched wearily as Edelgard pulled his lance from her shoulder and threw it disgustedly to the ground before looking at him with equal distaste.

“I intended to end your suffering quickly,” she said scornfully, taking small steps backward in retreat, “but if your wish is to lie there and perish slowly, then so be it. Fertilize the earth with your blood for all I care.” She turned away, one hand clamped over her shoulder as the other dragged Aymr behind her.

“Hey,” Sylvain called after her, his voice becoming garbled as he felt blood enter his throat. Edelgard paused, glancing back to where he laid in the snow. He met her gaze with undeterred, blazing eyes. “Hope it scars.”

The Emperor seemed to sneer at him before resuming her walk back to the gates of Fhirdiad, and Sylvain watched her go until her figure was absorbed into the night. As the chemicals in his body began to wear off, he was at last becoming conscious of how badly his injuries hurt. The gash in his side bled profusely, and he weakly clasped his hand over it to stifle the flow. He could hear Linhardt’s warnings resound in his head, ‘_You’ll die_,’ and ‘_She’ll kill you_.’

“Maybe I should’ve listened after all,” Sylvain said, spitting the blood from his mouth and dragging himself through the snow to where Edelgard had tossed his relic. He reached for it, watching the weapon glow and come to life as his hand grasped it. He used it to haul himself to his feet, hunching over like an elder and still clutching his gaping wound. Sylvain plodded along in search of where he’d left his steed, moving at an excruciatingly slow pace. He was in immense pain now, his injury throbbing mercilessly with every movement he made. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he was cold. He was _freezing_. The night’s bitter winds smacked his ruptured skin, aggravating the wound and causing him to wobble unsteadily. The longer it bled, the grimmer his outlook became. Even if he were to locate his horse, there was no guarantee that he’d be able to find help before it was too late. The idea of simply crumbling into the snow and allowing himself to quietly sink into the arms of death was enticing. It would be easy. It would be gentle. And it terrified him, how willing he was to let himself die.

He then thought of Linhardt.

He remembered his peaceful slumbering face, his sharp-tongued quips, his perpetually sleepy blue eyes, the delicate touch of his hands, the grief in his voice when he’d begged Sylvain not to leave. He remembered the unspoken pledge he’d made, to give him a world where they both might have a chance to experience peace.

An abrupt, stabbing pain in his side caused Sylvain to nearly double over, but he pressed on indignantly, rekindled devotion animating his ragged body. _I don’t want to die_, he thought, as though he were trying to convince himself. _At least not here. If this is really meant to be my end…then I want you to be the last thing I see._

\- - -

Linhardt did not sleep. He hadn’t for weeks. His drowsiness had never been more severe, but every night was the same–he’d manage to doze for an hour or two, only to wake prematurely and find himself unable to resume his slumber. The daytime naps he’d once found so rejuvenating now only lasted minutes and were not restful in the least. He went about his life in a haze, like some undead horror purged from its grave. He locked himself away, sometimes for more than a day at a time, only leaving in search of food to satiate his nonexistent appetite. Even trips to the bathhouse had become a burden, exhausting him not only physically, but emotionally as well due to the memories that overcame him upon entering the waters. He’d discovered a new state of misery that he’d been lucky enough to avoid once before. Back then, however, he’d had hope; a goal to drive him forward. Now, there was nothing.

He laid in bed, watching the window as night gave way to the pastel hues of dawn. He’d awoken hours earlier, but had not risen on the off chance that he might fall back asleep. Unfortunately, it was for naught. He dreaded the idea of having to muddle through another day in such an exhausted state. Reflexively, he clung a bit tighter to the blankets covering his body and curled in the bed–Sylvain’s old bed. The day after he’d left, Linhardt had asked the innkeeper if he could trade rooms. The old man had given him an utterly perplexed look, but permitted it. Maybe such a puzzled reaction had been deserved. Odd as it was, Linhardt couldn't bear the thought of some undeserving stranger occupying the same space that Sylvain had, despite the fact that travellers were becoming more and more rare. Regardless, it gave him peace of mind, or at least as much as he could hope to gain.

He forced himself up, his head spinning as he stood. He was in dire need of a good night’s sleep, and it was becoming increasingly evident that he was not going to be able to achieve it on his own. It was somewhat shameful really, that someone as notoriously lethargic as himself had been rendered incapable of sleeping soundly. While he wasn’t one to fuss over personal pride, there was a small part of him that was appalled at the possible need for a medicinal solution. His rapidly deteriorating body, however, compelled him to reevaluate his position, and he’d come to the conclusion that a trip to the apothecary was necessary. He groaned to himself, rubbing his eyes frustratedly as he began the tiresome process of making himself presentable, though he saw little point. The streets would be empty. The only person he’d have to interact with would be the girl who ran the shop, and she was unlikely to care what he looked like (if her eyes fell upon him at all). Even so, he carried on, holding tight to the notion that if he allowed himself to fall into such a state of slovenliness, he’d be just a beard’s-growth away from becoming a full-fledged hermit. Unmotivated and depressed as he was, there were still some lines he was unwilling to cross.

Linhardt threw on every layer of clothing that he could, despairing as he considered the unforgiving cold that awaited him. The Ethereal Moon was just over a week away, and the harshest days of winter would soon follow. He absolutely wanted to be asleep for that. If only he were capable of hibernating as animals did–slumbering undisturbed throughout the bleakest months, only waking when the warmth of spring was ready to return. He almost smiled at the thought as he left his room.

As he’d predicted, no one else was awake. Not even the owners had risen to begin their morning chores. It prompted him to wonder if the apothecary would be open for business yet or if he was wasting what little energy he had. Linhardt walked with muted steps to the entrance of the inn, opening and closing the door with great care. Shivers wracked his body instantly as he stepped outside. A thick layer of snow had accumulated overnight, enough to swallow Linhardt up to his ankles, and a sharp breeze nipped the bare skin of his face. He feared that prolonged exposure would freeze him solid. Surely anyone, even those blessed with warmer bodies, would be endangered by such conditions…

He shook the thought from his head, huddling against himself and beginning the short journey to the shop. Had the weather been nicer or had he dressed warmer, he might have found the morning peaceful. It was considerably less cloudy than usual, allowing the sun’s first light to illuminate the snow that crunched underfoot. A few birds sang in the distance, but the world was otherwise quiet. He might have even labeled it beautiful if he weren’t slowly freezing to death.

He trudged along, wishing he were alert enough or warm enough to appreciate his surroundings. He headed toward the main road, finding that the snow coating it was untouched. No one had come or gone during the night. It produced a twinge of disappointment in him, though he pushed it away with coldness rivalling that of the air around him. He knew better than to hope. Clinging to implausible desires at this point was pathetic. He tore his eyes from the street, instead looking up to see gray puffs of smoke rising from the chimney of the apothecary just a little ways further. He sighed with relief, wanting to return to the warmth of his blankets as soon as possible.

Moving with a bit more vigor, he walked toward the smoke, though he did not get very far before something caused him to pause. In the distance, just outside the town’s border, there appeared to be a figure moving through the snow. He squinted at it, his tired brain struggling to make sense of its form. He could just barely make out the shape of a horse, but there was something…awkward about it. Taking a few cautious steps forward as it drew nearer, Linhardt could not discern a rider upon its back. But it seemed to be carrying _something_. His curiosity piqued and his better judgement dampened by sleep deprivation, he rerouted himself toward the animal. He was not so foolish as to wander outside the limits of the hamlet, rather he waited on the road for the beast to approach. It certainly walked with sure steps as though it were being steered, but he still could not see anyone at the reins. It wasn’t until it was several feet from him that he saw them, slumped against the creature, almost curled into a ball in the saddle. Despite their hunkered position, there was something disturbingly familiar about them. He knew that armor. He knew that weapon holstered on their back. He knew that scarlet hair.

Linhardt tried to say the name that had been echoing in his mind for weeks, but his throat quickly closed, leaving him to mouth the word silently. As if in a trance, he approached him; first walking, then jogging, then sprinting. He slowed as he closed the distance between them, warily taking the horse’s reins in one hand to halt it before assessing Sylvain. His breaths came as heavy pants, and he seemed to be holding his midsection rather securely, though his arm trembled with the effort. He could barely see an opening in the armor covering his forearm where it had been broken by something, and dried blood spatters decorated the surrounding metal. Linhardt felt woozy at the sight and swayed a bit on his feet before shifting his gaze to Sylvain’s face. His features were obscured as he hung his head, and it was unclear as to whether he was even conscious. Linhardt placed a hand on the knight’s shoulder, shaking him lightly.

“Sylvain,” he said, finally finding his voice. There was no response. “Sylvain, look at me!”

The noble just barely lifted his head, his deathly pallor and unfocused eyes causing Linhardt’s heart to stop in his chest. He looked like he wanted to speak but his mouth only formed inaudible syllables as his eyes rolled white, and he toppled from his saddle. Linhardt rushed to catch him, his knees bending under the other’s weight as he leaned limply on the frail mage.

“Damn it,” Linhardt hissed, wriggling one hand free to press his fingers against Sylvain’s neck in search of a pulse. He could hardly feel it beating feebly beneath the noble’s skin. All exhaustion cleared from his mind, he pulled Sylvain from his steed and draped one of the larger man’s arms over his shoulders. He was not at all confident in his own strength, but he wasn’t about to abandon the knight to go find someone more capable. He heaved Sylvain along, practically dragging him back to the hamlet and shouting urgently for help upon entering. A few people poked their heads from their doors, including the apothecary’s owner, who rushed to Linhardt’s aid upon seeing who he was carrying. He sent another bystander to retrieve Sylvain’s horse as he and the young woman brought Sylvain back to the inn. Having been awoken by the commotion outside, the innkeepers stood at their door ready to assist. While Linhardt was grateful for their willingness to help, he suddenly felt crowded. With his wartime experience returning to him, he quickly busied the couple with retrieving a bowl of water and clean linens or cloths. As they dispersed, he and the shopgirl hauled Sylvain up the stairs, and to his old room–the one Linhardt now inhabited. With as much gentleness as they could manage, they laid him face-up on the bed.

“What happened?” The girl asked, her hands folded in a prayer-like pose in front of her.

“I don’t know,” Linhardt answered, setting to work removing Sylvain’s armor. “Help me get this off of him.” She complied, tending to the steel encasing his legs while the mage worked on his upper body. The woman piled it all at the foot of the bed, and Linhardt wasted no time disrobing the rest of the soldier’s torso.

He tossed his shredded shirt aside, his head buzzing as the extent of Sylvain’s injuries were revealed. Just below his ribs on his right side was a gaping wound; as though something had started to slash him, and then simply impaled him instead. He could easily guess the weapon responsible for such damage, but he did not allow himself to dwell on it. It would only make him angry, and this was no time to become overwhelmed by emotion.

“Dear Goddess,” the girl gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. Linhardt cautiously rolled Sylvain to get a better look at his injury, the metallic reek of blood striking his nostrils as he moved closer. For the briefest moment, he felt like he was back in his nightmares–back in Enbarr–and his vision went dark for a single heartbeat.

_Fight through it_, he ordered himself._ He needs you._

With quivering hands, he inspected the wound. It was deep. The possibility of organ damage seemed likely, but his primary concern lied elsewhere. He was more worried about how old the wound was, if there was any risk of infection, or if Sylvain had already lost too much blood.

“Do you have antiseptics and something to bandage him with?” Linhardt asked the shopgirl, as he laid Sylvain flat again. She looked at him, panic shone plainly in her eyes.

“Yes, I have both back at the store.”

“Could you bring them to me, please?”

She hesitated, looking at Linhardt with uncertainty before nodding and running out of the room. She was soon replaced by the husband and wife of the inn, carrying the supplies he’d requested. Linhardt murmured his thanks, his eyes fixed on Sylvain as he squatted to the other’s level. He dismissed them before they could offer anymore help, using the excuse that he would require space to work. He truly did appreciate their kindness, but he wanted to be alone. He wanted to focus wholly on Sylvain without foreign eyes looking upon them. The couple, noticeably reluctant, left after assuring Linhardt that they would be nearby if he needed them.

Breathing a bit easier in their absence, Linhardt shed his outer layer of clothing and rolled up his sleeves. He took a cloth, soaking it in water and wringing it before delicately wiping the blood crusted around Sylvain’s wound. He felt bile rise to his throat–not just from the gruesome nature of the injury, but from the familiarity of it. He’d seen this brutality before, he knew all too well how easily it could turn fatal. He tightened his jaw as he rinsed the cloth, red dissipating from the fabric. Edelgard certainly had a preferred method of killing. She may as well have left her signature on his body.

“Here,” a soft voice at his side made Linhardt jump. He turned to see the apothecary owner holding out a bottle of clear liquid, a roll of gauze, and tape as she gazed worriedly at Sylvain from the corner of her eye. Linhardt thanked her, taking the items and placing them on the floor beside him before resuming his task. The girl did not leave right away, instead hovering over the two men while anxiously fiddling with her apron.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Linhardt said, trying his best not to sound abrasive, “I’d like some privacy while I work.”

The girl mumbled an apology, casting one last fretful glance at Sylvain before turning to exit the room. She paused at the doorway, looking over her shoulder at Linhardt. “Is he going to die?”

Linhardt blinked at her. His bedside manner had never been something to praise, but he wasn’t about to lie to spare her feelings. Or his.

“Possibly,” he replied, “but I will surely kill myself trying to save him before I let that happen.”

He could not tell if his vow reassured her or frightened her. Frankly, he was a bit startled himself by the newfound strength behind the words. The young shopkeeper said nothing in return. She held Linhardt’s gaze for a few seconds more before she took her leave, closing the door behind her. The mage exhaled a sigh, rinsing and wringing his cloth again.

“I warned you that this would happen, did I not?” He asked, knowing Sylvain was deaf to his voice but wanting desperately to speak to him. He gently pressed the cloth to the gash, taking care not to look at it while he did. Instead he monitored Sylvain’s face for any flinch or grimace, any signal that he could feel Linhardt. There was no change.

The Adrestian sighed again, discarding the dirtied cloth in favor of a fresh one and wetting it with the antiseptic. “This will probably sting,” he cautioned, fully aware of how useless his words were. He dabbed the injury, again keeping his eyes locked on Sylvain’s face. This time he stirred a bit, his brows twitching just slightly. Linhardt inwardly despaired at the thought of bringing him further pain, but it was for his own good. He pressed on, thoroughly wiping and blotting until he felt confident that it was sanitized.

Now came the difficult part. He rolled Sylvain one more time, doing his best to subdue his nausea as he evaluated the newly-cleaned wound again. _His muscle has been torn_, he noted, but he was unable to tell if the damage went any deeper. He assessed his options. Magic was the quickest solution, but he questioned its ability to heal internal trauma. Healing spells were useless in cases of broken bones and disease–situations where the hand did not have direct contact with a specific afflicted area. It made sense that organ damage would be the same. However, the wound was open. If he were to focus the magic just right then maybe…?

Linhardt laid Sylvain flat. He rested a diffident hand over the torn skin, shuddering as he felt the wound, and took a few deep breaths. It had been quite some time since he attempted to heal someone. He could only hope that his skills had not dulled over the months. He focused what little strength he possessed on Sylvain, his palm prickling nostalgically as it emitted an ethereal glow and intricate symbols orbited his hand. _Heal from the inside_, he thought, his body already shaking with the effort of maintaining the flow of magic. _Mend tissue. Mend muscle._ He had no idea if it was working. He could not feel Sylvain’s injury closing, which could have signified success as well as failure. He also could not tell if his crest was supporting him. There was typically a telltale warmth in his sternum and burst of energy, neither of which he could feel.

Linhardt cursed himself, letting the magic fade from his hand as he fell completely to his knees. Despite his attempt, there did not appear to be any change in the wound. He ground his teeth in frustration, his eyes finding their way to Sylvain’s colorless face. Linhardt was still struggling to accept that he was really there, the fact that he was dying was another matter entirely. He reached out to brush away a few strands of hair plastered to the knight’s sweaty face, his heart palpitating in his chest as he did so.

“I feel as though I’m letting you down all over again,” he whispered to him, his hand cupping the soldier’s cheek. How terribly he wanted those golden eyes to look upon him again, how desperately he wanted to see that arrogant smirk grace his lips. Sylvain as he was now–unconscious, tattered, death securing its grip on him with every passing second–hurt him to behold. This could not be his end. He’d returned for a reason; he’d returned for Linhardt. He was not about to relinquish him so soon.

Removing his hand from Sylvain’s face, he turned his attention back to his wound. He assumed his prior position, straining as his palm glowed once more. _Live...you have to live_, he begged silently. _I **need** you to live_. There was an abrupt surge in the pit of his chest as his crest awakened, intensifying the light that emanated from his hand. While he was grateful for it, his body felt as though it might crumble. His breathing was becoming labored, his palms became clammy, and his muscles spasmed in protest. Still, he held himself in place for more than a minute, only allowing his hand to fall away from Sylvain when his energy was utterly spent. The fear that had been energizing him before was being dissolved by weeks of sleep deprivation. But he could not rest yet. His work was far from done.

Lacking the strength to move Sylvain’s body again, Linhardt had to lean awkwardly to survey the injury. He exhaled gratefully. Blood no longer seeped from it, and it seemed a bit less inflamed than before, but it was still very much an open wound. Linhardt unravelled the gauze beside him, covering the area as much as he could without adjusting Sylvain’s position. Someone would have to help him properly wrap his midsection later, but the knight had other wounds that still required his immediate attention (though they would have to be tended to without use of magic, as he had no energy left to give.)

Linhardt began cleaning the laceration on Sylvain’s arm, pleased to find that it was not nearly as horrific as the previous wound. He rinsed it with care, slowly coming down from the distress-fueled high that had been carrying him since the moment he saw Sylvain. As he calmed, he began to feel a heaviness in his eyelids that had not been present for weeks.

“Of all the times to become drowsy,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist in a battle to keep them from closing. As much as he wanted to embrace his exhaustion and fall into what would likely be one of the deepest sleeps he’d ever have, Linhardt persevered. He would not allow himself to rest until he was certain that Sylvain was stable.

He dressed the cut on his arm and scanned the rest of his body for any more injuries. His ribs were bruised, but unbroken. His arms were spotted purple as well, and his hands were scraped and slightly blistered, but there were no other open wounds to speak of. Linhardt attempted to stand from the floor, but found that his legs were unable to support him. He made it halfway to his feet, using the bed for support, but his knees swiftly buckled and failed beneath him. Huffing with annoyance, he managed to haul his decrepit body into the bed beside Sylvain, half of him teetering on the edge as he utilized what little space was available.

Though his eyes insisted on closing, Linhardt would not allow it. He kept them trained on Sylvain’s face, noting that he now looked slightly more relaxed–although it could very well have been wishful thinking on Linhardt’s part. The Adrestian rested his forehead against the other’s temple, his familiar scent washing over him. He couldn’t say it was pleasant. He smelled like sweat and the outdoors, but his essence remained beneath it all. One thing that was not present, however, was his warmth–he was actually rather cold to the touch. His shallow breathing was the only visible indicator he was still alive. Linhardt had truly done all that he could to preserve his life. For now, it seemed like it was up to Sylvain whether he survived or not.

“I’ve wanted you to return since the moment I found you gone,” the bishop murmured to him dolefully, “but if you’ve come here just to die before my eyes, I don’t know that I will ever be able to forgive you. Or myself.” His hand stretched over the breadth of Sylvain’s chest, and rested over his heart. Linhardt felt it pound weakly against his palm, not nearly as robust as he remembered. He counted each beat to occupy his mind while he resisted sleep’s temptation. One. Two. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. They came in slow succession but never ceased, as he so feared they would. Sylvain’s heart was proving to be quite resilient indeed.

“Please, keep fighting. Don’t let her win,” Linhardt whispered, his head still pressed to the knight’s. “Fight and heal quickly…so that you can finally come back to me.” He nestled just a bit closer to the noble. “I promise I won’t push you away this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note-i have no idea how healing magic in FE works. but i dont think it's a fix-all for everything, so this logic makes the most sense to me, and that magic like Physic only restores strength, but couldn't close a wound. (if you follow me on twitter, this was what i was losing my mind over the other day lmao)
> 
> as always, thank you so much for your support! please take care of yourselves


	12. Recompense

Sylvain did not regain consciousness at any point the rest of the day, nor the day that followed. Though Linhardt had not expected that he would. Even so, he found himself holding his breath whenever the knight’s eyes would flit beneath their lids or when he would express some soft, pained sound. Each tiny movement, any sign of life that Sylvain exhibited commanded Linhardt’s attention, chasing away the drowsiness that still lurked within him. He was grateful for it, however, as it seemed that he was about to be met with another sleepless night.

The innkeepers and the shopgirl checked on him periodically, bringing fresh supplies and sustenance for the two of them. With each visit came the offer to relieve Linhardt of his post, but he refused it every time. He would assure them that everything was fine; that Sylvain was stable, that he didn’t need a break, that he didn’t need help, that he knew what he was doing, that he was fine to watch over Sylvain alone. Of course, there was little truth to any of it. In reality, it was guilt that compelled him to keep everyone else away–guilt stemming from his own failures that had placed Sylvain in this predicament. If only he’d been able to stop him. If only he hadn’t hurt him. If only he hadn’t spurned him with such indifference. Then perhaps the knight would have been spared the axe in his skin.

The intrusive thoughts felt heavy in Linhardt’s head as his second night of monitoring Sylvain began. In the dozens of hours he’d occupied the room, he’d created a rather impressive mess. He did not recall being so sloppy, but he found that used cloths were in dispersed heaps along with discarded layers of his own clothing, bloodied bandages lay scattered like shed snakeskins, and emptied bottles of antiseptic sat turned on their sides by the bed. It wasn’t too far a cry from the disaster that Sylvain himself had maintained in that very room, Linhardt thought as he set to work restoring order to the space. He gathered the cloths and used gauze, ignoring the bile that rose in his throat upon touching the bloodstained items. He’d felt Sylvain’s blood on his hands for more than a day, but he still could not fortify himself against the feeling of sickness that it triggered.

There’s so much of it, he observed, averting his eyes from the crimson-blotted fabrics in his arms. He did not allow the thought to progress. Thinking too much about the numerous things tipping the scales against Sylvain would send him plummeting down a rabbithole. He would surely extinguish the weak ember of hope that still burned defiantly within him.

Linhardt set the dirty laundry and bandages beside the door, planning to dispose of them at a later time. He was not yet ready to leave Sylvain’s side, even for a single moment. He collected the empty bottles as he returned to the knight’s bed, straining as he bent down to pick them up. He groaned at the exhaustive movements, finding that at the ripe age of 23 he already sounded like a miserable old man. He set the glass containers on the nightstand before seating himself on the edge of the bed, his back to Sylvain. His eyes wandered to the window, with its curtains halfway drawn. It was a clear night. Stars glittered brilliantly from their home in the heavens. The nearly-full moon illuminated the snow that coated the ground and rooftops. Everything outside seemed to be tinted a frostbitten blue, appropriate for such a frigid winter evening.

“It’s hard to believe you’ve lived with this all your life,” Linhardt sighed to Sylvain, hoping he might somehow hear him. “We are such drastically different people, you and I–right down to our favorite seasons. Had our circumstances been different, I doubt that we ever would have looked each other’s way. It’s odd. I think there’s a part of me that’s...grateful that our fates intertwined as they did. That’s not to say that I’m glad we both suffered such painful losses...but I’m happy that we were brought together because of it.” Linhardt blinked, his eyes burning from sleeplessness. “I thought about you every minute of every day when you were gone; I thought about how you would smile at me. I thought about how you held me. I thought about the sound of your laugh…I fear that I’ve become rather infatuated with you.” The stars outside the window seemed to flicker. “You already know that I’ve been in love before. I know that you’ve loved someone, as well. This feeling seems far too young to be labeled so definitively, doesn’t it? To give it such a sacred title, to throw the word around so frivolously seems careless, and yet…” his throat was suddenly dry, “I find myself wanting to say it more and more.” The air felt thick with the silence that followed. He was prepared to accept that perhaps he might be doomed to be answered with quiet from that point on. Until it was abruptly broken by a weak huff from behind him.

“Have you really fallen for me?”

Sylain’s voice did not immediately register in Linhardt’s sleep-deprived brain, sounding hoarse and lifeless in his ears. He slowly turned his head, his heart forgetting to beat as he saw the noble’s eyes just slightly open, but undeniably looking at him. They did not hold their trademark mischief, but the weak beginning of a smirk played upon his lips. Linhardt went blank. He lost all verbal capability as his emotions whirled within him. Joy and relief overcame him before anything else, as he continued to stare at the other in disbelief. But it was short-lived. All of the fear, all of the regret and anxiety and sadness that had been weighing heavily in Linhardt’s soul for weeks suddenly vanished. Fury erupted from beneath it all like a geyser.

“Idiot!” Linhardt snapped, barely resisting the impulse to shove Sylvain where he laid. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” Sylvain, visibly confused by how quickly the bishop turned on him, was given no time to answer before Linhardt reprimanded him further. “Have you no regard for your own safety? Are you honestly that stupid? Or is it that you truly wished so desperately to die?”

Although somewhat intimidated, Sylvain chuckled hollowly, wincing as he did. “Are you really scolding me right now? That’s no way to treat your patient.”

“You wouldn’t be my patient if you weren’t such a hard-headed imbecile,” Linhardt retorted, his instincts taking over as he quickly checked that Sylvain’s laughter had not aggravated his wound.

“Fair,” Sylvain said with a hiss at the Adrestian’s prodding.

“You’re lucky to have survived,” Linhardt grumbled, removing his hands from the soldier as he finished his brief inspection.

“I’m lucky you’re here to take care of me,” he returned, craning his neck to look at his bandaged midsection. “What’s the prognosis?”

“It’s hard to say,” Linhardt answered, maintaining his audible bitterness. “The wound was deep. I’m fairly certain that there was damage to your organs, but I used magic to try and heal whatever internal trauma I could before suturing you. The risk of infection is still relatively high, and you lost a considerable amount of blood. You’re not out of danger yet. It’s still too early to know if you will deteriorate any further.”

“I see,” Sylvain said, resting a hand over his injury before laughing again. “Damn…it seriously feels like she tried to cut me in half.”

“I hardly think it’s worth laughing over,” Linhardt bit back. “Has the gravity of the situation not struck you yet? She very nearly _killed_ you. You could have been out there, buried in the snow, never to be found. That should terrify you.” The ghost of a smile abandoned Sylvain’s face as he looked at the younger man. Linhardt held his gaze determinedly, unaware that he had begun to tremble as he spoke. He watched as Sylvain struggled to sit up, his face twisting at the pain of his movements. Linhardt glanced uneasily at the soldier’s stomach.

“Wait, you shouldn’t–” he protested, but was soon silenced as Sylvain reached out to wind his arms around the mage’s body, holding him so close that he was nearly smothered. Linhardt remained still, afraid that any motion on his part might hurt Sylvain or cause him to let go. He still did not feel as warm as usual, but he was not as startlingly cold as he’d been when Linhardt felt him the day before. His ember of hope burned a bit fiercer at that.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain whispered to him. “I’m really sorry. I should have stayed. I should have listened to you...I’m so sorry that I made you worry.”

Linhardt said nothing for several heartbeats. Instead, he simply savored the feeling of their bodies pressed together, and how some part of him, at last, felt whole again. “I’m sorry, too,” he finally said, leaning his head against Sylvain’s. “I’m sorry that I was cruel to you.”

“Please,” he heard Sylvain scoff as he leaned back, one of his hands trailing to find Linhardt’s. “Don’t apologize to me. I’m the one who put you in an unfair position, the blame doesn’t rest solely on you. Besides, I don’t think you have a cruel bone in your body.”

Linhardt looked down to where Sylvain’s fingers had interlaced with his own. “You put me on too high a pedestal,” he objected. Sylvain squeezed his hand with what little strength he had.

“Nonsense,” he said, falling backward into the pillows and dragging Linhardt with him. He followed without protest, settling himself comfortably beside the redhead.

“It was unbearable,” Linhardt said softly, his eyes locked intently upon Sylvain’s drained face, “having to live every day not knowing if you were dead or alive…thinking that I would never see you again.”

Sylvain stared back at him unwaveringly. “I’m sorry.”

“I hated it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” Linhardt mumbled with a sigh. “You can apologize to me by healing swiftly.”

Sylvain breathed a laugh, turning to face the ceiling and allowing his eyes to fall shut. “I’ll do my best.”

Linhardt watched him vigilantly. His anger had almost completely ebbed in favor of a blissful calm. Sylvain’s survival was not yet assured, but the fact that he was awake and coherent could only be seen as progress. At last, Linhardt allowed himself to relax–allowed for the weeks-worth of tension in his muscles to ease and for his mind to be free of the unrelenting worry that had infested it for so long. He did not know at what point he started to drift off, only he fell into the deepest, most peaceful sleep he’d ever known.

\- - -

The following days were spent repeating the same routine: Linhardt would wake, clean Sylvain’s wounds, dress them with fresh bandages, and essentially served as his caretaker. While it was, admittedly, a great deal of work, Linhardt did not mind it. It was a welcome change of pace after the depression-induced haze that had previously plagued him. He’d never fully understood the term “labor of love”, but he had to wonder if this was one such act.

Of course, Sylvain was opposed to being treated so helplessly. He begged Linhardt to let him out of bed and he whined at the bishop’s staunch refusal. Linhardt mentally prepared himself for it now, nudging the door to the knight’s room open with his hip and carrying his armful of supplies to Sylvain’s bedside. He was still sleeping, laying on his stomach, sheets only covering half of his body. Linhardt was a bit envious. While the quality of his own sleep had improved tenfold, the amount of time he spent asleep had not changed. How he longed to be in Sylvain’s position; life-threatening injury omitted. He freed his arms, poking Sylvain on the shoulder until he stirred.

“Wake up,” he said, jabbing the noble a bit more insistently as his face scrunched in resistance. Aware that Linhardt was not going to relent, Sylvain opened one eye to glare halfheartedly at his companion.

“I thought the whole point of keeping me in bed was so I could rest,” he grumbled sleepily.

“You can sleep all you like once I’m finished,” Linhardt answered, gesturing for the knight to roll onto his back. “And you should really try to avoid sleeping on your stomach.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sylvain said as he turned himself over and sat up so that the mage could unwrap his old bandages. “I can’t help it, I think I just toss and turn a lot when I sleep.”

Linhardt found a loose edge of gauze and began to peel the material from Sylvain’s body. “I don’t recall you being so restless when we shared a bed.”

“That’s because I had something to pacify me,” Sylvain responded, and Linhardt could hear a grin shaping his words. He did not look up from his work for confirmation. Seeing that he was not going to get whatever reaction he’d sought, Sylvain continued. “So is my lovely nurse going to let me out of my room today?”

“No, he’s not,” Linhardt replied without hesitation. He could practically feel Sylvain scowling down at him.

“I‘m starting to think that you like having me at your mercy,” he fussed. “This feels an awful lot like revenge.”

Linhardt shot him a humorless glance as he dabbed Sylvain’s injury with a dampened rag. “I assure you, I am not the type to hold a grudge.” He noted the significant decrease in redness and swelling of the other man’s wound. “If it’s any consolation, you’re actually healing quite nicely. I doubt that I’ll have to keep you confined much longer.”

“That’s a relief,” Sylvain replied. “Being stuck in bed by myself all the time is such a bore.”

“You’re not by yourself, I’ve been here with you every day,” Linhardt replied, somewhat absent as he focused on rewrapping the other’s abdomen. His attention was seized as he felt fingers dance up his spine.

“That’s not what I mean,” Sylvain said, his voice dropping. Linhardt paused, looking at the soldier warily.

“Stop it,” he ordered, though he felt heat threaten to stain his cheeks. “You know your body is too fragile for that. Besides, given your current state your performance would likely be…underwhelming.”

Sylvain stared blankly at him, as though he were genuinely offended. Linhardt nonchalantly returned his attention to dressing his wound, rather pleased with himself for finding words that could render the knight speechless. Sylvain’s astonishment turned to indignation in a blink.

“Oh yeah?” He said, hooking both arms around Linhardt and pulling the smaller man to lay on top of him. One of his hands secured itself on the back of Linhardt’s head, holding him so that he was unable to avoid Sylvain’s fiery expression. “My willpower has its limits, you know,” the tip of his nose barely brushed Linhardt’s. “I’ve still never kissed you. I still don’t know what it’s like to make love to you when you’re not begging for someone else. I’m not sure how much longer I can restrain myself.”

Linhardt’s pulse raced. His gaze darted between Sylvain’s honey-colored eyes and his lips that looked nearly as sweet. But he could not yield. Physical exertion was the last thing Sylvain needed, no matter what decadence his sultry words promised. Gently, he pressed his hands against the noble’s chest, watching as his face betrayed a quick flash of excitement that disappeared as Linhardt lifted himself from his body. Though clearly disappointed, Sylvain untangled his hand from the other’s hair and allowed him to escape.

“If you simply do as I say and give your body a bit more time to recover, then you won’t have to wait much longer,” Linhardt said, standing at the bedside and reorganizing himself. Sylvain pouted up at him.

“Yes sir,” he muttered begrudgingly.

Linhardt finished bandaging Sylvain and excused himself. His heart beat wildly in his chest as he exited the bedroom, closing the door behind him. It dawned on him that he’d not felt Sylvain hold him so commandingly since he’d returned. Being in the condition he was, their touches had been mostly impersonal–as healer and patient interactions typically were. It was certainly a good sign that Sylvain was regaining his wily tendencies, but Linhardt was unprepared for how his body responded. It made perfect sense, though. He was completely exposed now. He was aware of Sylvain’s emotions and Sylvain was aware of his. He placed his hand over his chest, as if to steady the pounding of his heart. Was this how it was going to be every time Sylvain touched him now? Linhardt shook his head. No matter how fixated his thoughts became, there was nothing to be done about it.

Although as morning aged into afternoon, he was keenly aware that his skin still burned where Sylvain’s hands had been. His heartbeats were still deafening. The feeling of Sylvain’s eyes boring holes into his did not vanish. He found himself delaying his return to the room, lest the soldier try again to tempt him and his resolve faltered

_It’s for his own good_, he reminded himself. _Besides, are you prepared to face the implications of such actions?_ A valid point. It would surely be a significantly different experience than before. The masks had fallen, the charade had been dropped. There would be no way to detach from Sylvain, there would be no fleeing to the memory of Byleth or turning a blind eye to the living man who held him–the man he’d come to cherish and care for so devotedly. It would undoubtedly be a point of no return. Was he truly ready for such a leap?

He could not answer the question with any semblance of certainty. The importance of the matter coupled with the heat still lingering beneath his skin made for a rather distracting combination. Linhardt ended up spending the better part of the day outside of Sylvain’s room, seeking any small chore he could in an effort to extend his absence: he restocked on supplies, fetched Sylvain’s armor from the blacksmith, acquired fresh linens, and piled everything he’d collected outside of Sylvain’s door as he avoided needlessly entering the room.

As the sun descended over the horizon, he elected to conclude his tasks by enjoying a much needed bath. He was alone in the waters, left to once again be overrun by his thoughts. He leaned against the stone siding of the pool and gazed upward at the starlit sky, much like he had so many nights ago. When he’d first fallen under Sylvain’s spell. When he first saw the other man’s scarred body. When he first felt those coarse yet careful hands caress him so gently. When he first felt his hungry lips on his skin…He halted his mind as he felt himself flush. Despite his efforts to keep himself out of Sylvain’s reach, it seemed that the knight had branded himself upon Linhardt’s subconscious. He was a part of him now, the bishop realized as he stared unblinkingly at the sky. A resounding pang in his chest brought forth the memory of the promise he’d made to Sylvain the day he returned–his promise to never again push him away.

_Ah…I’m breaking it_, he thought, suddenly ashamed. Even though he told himself it was in Sylvain’s best interest to keep away for a while, he’d been so quick to fall back into the habit; as though it was mere instinct to reject any sense of closeness. No matter how he dressed it up, a vow broken was a vow broken. There was no justifying it.

He’d gone into the baths with the intention of easing his conscience, but he left feeling even more uneasy than before. At least the frosty air on his wet hair had killed whatever heat still lingered within him as he made his way back to the inn. He seemed to be the only soul wandering the town, save for one person loitering just a few meters from the tavern. Linhardt paid them no mind as he entered the building, and was too preoccupied to notice that the door never closed behind him. He shivered as he approached the stairs, puffing hot air into his frozen hands as he attempted to thaw them. He approached Sylvain’s room, finding that his pile of treasures had already been retrieved. Linhardt took that to mean that either someone else had entered the room, or Sylvain had left it at some point. Before his brain could send him into a panic over either scenario, he felt a hand appear on his shoulder. With a jump, he spun to see Sylvain–fully clothed, but no less ragged looking than when Linhardt had left him that morning.

“Please don’t sneak up on me like that,” Linhardt scolded, brushing the noble’s hand away. Sylvain smiled back at him apologetically.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in a display of innocence. “You walked right past me on your way in, I really thought you saw me.”

“No...I was a bit distracted,” Linhardt said, folding his arms over his chest. “What are you doing out of bed? I thought I’d made it abundantly clear that you shouldn’t be resuming regular activity.” Sylvain laughed, apparently finding something humorous in Linhardt’s crotchety demeanor.

“I just wanted to walk around for a while, y’know, stretch my legs,” he said, amusement still written on his features. “Surely you can’t object to me getting just a few minutes of exercise.”

“No, but I can get angry with you for wandering off on your own,” Linhardt retorted, though his tone was less accusatory. “You should have waited for me to return.”

Sylvain shrugged. “I did wait, but you were taking so long, I thought you might be too tired by the time you came back.” Some unknown emotion rapidly flashed in his eyes. “It looks like I might’ve been right based on your foul mood. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Linhardt replied. Sylvain’s lowered brows and skeptical frown told the mage he was unconvinced. 

“Are you sure?”

_You’re doing it again_, Linhardt admonished himself, shuffling his feet as he fought his way through the palpable awkwardness. _Don’t fight it._

“No,” Linhardt mumbled uncomfortably, “I’m not sure.”

Sylvain’s visible doubt turned to concern. “Is something troubling you?”

“Nothing but my own ineptitude.”

“What do you mean?”

Linhardt was beginning to feel as if he was being interrogated, with Sylvain tossing him question after question as he was. He hated the feeling of being put on the spot, but he suppressed his displeasure as best he could.

“I find myself...overwhelmed by you,” Linhardt said, shifting his eyes away from the knight. “I don’t mean to imply that you’re doing anything wrong. It’s just...the emotions I hold for you, whatever they may be, are so intense. Frightening, even. Sometimes it feels like there’s a chain around me.”

“Are you saying that you feel burdened by me?”

“Of course not,” Linhardt said, his gaze once again locking with Sylvain’s. “Scary as it may be, I don’t ever want to be rid of this feeling. For so long I told myself that I was content to remain alone–that I would rather die in solitude than let myself fall for someone other than Byleth. But now,” he felt out of breath as he continued, and Sylvain’s golden eyes seemed to sear through him, “I can’t bear to imagine an existence without these feelings...without you. It’s torture to be apart from you even momentarily, but I’m afraid that letting myself fall too far will only hurt both of us.”

Sylvain’s jaw tightened as he looked upon the Adrestian with a softening expression. “Is that why you left me today?”

Guilt stabbed at Linhardt’s chest. “Yes...I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to neglect you. You have to believe me when I say that I would never willfully hurt you. Not again.” He brought one hand to cup Sylvain’s cheek as he looked upon him with loving, sorrowful eyes. “I care about you far too deeply to risk losing you again.”

Sylvain held his gaze for several muted moments before lifting his hand to hold Linhardt’s, and turning to place a kiss in the center of his palm. The Adrestian’s heart swelled at the tenderness of the gesture, and he barely resisted the urge to throw his arms around Sylvain and plant kiss after kiss upon him in return. He remained prudent though, retracting his hand and turning to retire into their room.

Linhardt was not able to take a single step before he felt Sylvain’s hand close around his wrist, and he turned back to see the soldier’s eyes aglow with an indefinable fire. He was only permitted to witness it for a few seconds before the taller man’s opposite hand found his waist and pulled their bodies together.

“Forgive me,” he whispered to his dazed partner. Before Linhardt could comprehend the words, he was captured.

Sylvain’s lips, at last, claimed his with unmatched passion. Linhardt’s initial shock was dwarfed by the sensations that surged through his every nerve. It felt as though his entire being had been set alight–it was intrusive, intoxicating, and suffocating all at once. Even so, his body was all too eager to accept it. His widened eyes could see nothing. The world was soundless. The scenery around him faded into obscurity as he felt like he was falling–spiraling into a euphoric trance. When he felt Sylvain pull away, he nearly whined. The noble must have felt the same. The hand that had secured Linhardt’s wrist released it in favor of cradling the bishop’s head as he looked at him from beneath heavy eyelids.

“Are you mad?” Sylvain asked, his breath soft and light on Linhardt’s face.

The mage shook his head weakly. “No.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

He shook his head again, more adamantly this time. “No…never stop.”

Sylvain was diving toward Linhardt before he could complete the sentence. Electricity coursed through him once more as their lips reconnected with greater urgency. His hands, unconsciously, found their way to Sylvain’s torso, and his fingers gently curled into the fabric of his shirt as if to anchor their bodies together. Sylvain’s hand wound itself into Linhardt’s dampened locks, and he felt the noble’s tongue gently sweep over his lips. At first with mild hesitation, the mage allowed his mouth to fall open, prompting Sylvain to hastily invade its space. So many times had Linhardt told himself that he did not want this, that to kiss Sylvain would be the final damning act in his betrayal of Byleth, that this one experience was the only barrier left to shield his heart from Sylvain. Though now, as his body melted to liquid in the other’s arms, as their lips effortlessly molded together, it seemed a silly thing to fear. With their tongues entwined as they clung to one another with mounting desperation, Linhardt did not feel the despair and regret that he’d long feared would consume him. Rather his whole world, his whole being, narrowed to only Sylvain–nothing else mattered in that moment. As far as he was concerned, nothing else existed outside of this moment; outside of the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience, im so sorry this chapter was so delayed! i got hung up on so many parts here. ive been looking forward to this moment since i first started writing this fic... i really tried to make it as close to perfect as i possibly could.
> 
> there's still so much ahead for these two, i'll do my best to deliver.
> 
> thank you so much for reading and for your support!


	13. Unity

In a flurry of uncoordinated movements, Sylvain guided Linhardt into their room, their lips still locked and bodies still clinging to each other. Linhardt was hardly aware of their surroundings, finding that the longer he kissed Sylvain, the less willing he was to part. He didn’t notice when the soldier began to strip the outer layers of his clothing or when he started to push him closer to the bed.

“Lin-” Sylvain tried to speak, but the Adrestian refused to remove himself–or rather he felt incapable of doing so. He swallowed the sound of his own name, impatiently grasping at Sylvain’s clothing. The knight had to gently take his companion by the shoulders and pull the two of them apart, with Linhardt whimpering disappointedly as he did so.

“Can you at least stop long enough to let me take a breath?” Sylvain teased, dragging his hands from Linhardt’s shoulders to cup his flushed, dreamy face.

“Sorry,” the mage apologized, his voice but a whisper. “My self-control seems to have abandoned me.” Sylvain smiled lovingly at him, lightly kissing his partner between the eyes.

“That’s just fine,” he said, his tone dropping to match Linhardt’s. “You’re cute when you’re desperate for me.”

Before Linhardt had a chance to scowl at him for employing the accursed word, Sylvain scooped him into his arms with one swift, effortless motion.

“W-wait a moment,” Linhardt objected, “Your injury…You shouldn’t strain yourself–”

“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” Sylvain interrupted, his eyes glimmering mischievously. “My own self-control was exhausted some time ago.”

Linhardt’s face felt inflamed as he was carried just a few steps to the bed, and carefully laid upon the unmade sheets. Sylvain joined him, hovering over the smaller man as a lion who’d just pinned its meal. His sunlit eyes held Linhardt’s with intimate ferocity, and the mage felt as if he might be consumed into their void. Not daring to break the contact, Linhardt made no protests as Sylvain tugged his shirt over his head and shimmied him out of his trousers with maddening slowness, taking his sweet time disrobing his partner until he lay stark naked before him. Linhardt was too hypnotized by Sylvain’s hungry, desireful expression to feel any sort of shame. He wanted this–he wanted to be fully exposed, he wanted the soldier to drink in his every curve and crevice. He wanted to be vulnerable.

Sylvain had seen Linhardt’s bare body countless times before, but now, somehow, it felt as though he were beholding him for the first time–his supple, milky skin; his long, silken hair that pooled around his head like a halo; his plump, pinkened lips; the subtle swell of his hips; his abyssal blue eyes…it all felt brand new. For the first time in his life, Sylvain wished he had some manner of artistic ability so that he might paint this moment–so that he could immortalize it for eternity upon a canvas.

“You’re beautiful,” he gushed, brushing his thumb along Linhardt’s cheekbone. The mage leaned into his touch, his gaze still locked with Sylvain’s. “You’re so unbelievably beautiful…”

Linhardt could hardly hear him. His mind felt fuzzy, blurred by the convergence of emotion and arousal within him. He stared intently as Sylvain withdrew his hand to begin undressing himself. He took his shirt by the hem and pulled it over his head, revealing his bandaged abdomen. Linhardt noticed a slight twitch in his movement as he continued to shed his clothing. A wince, most likely. He feared that Sylvain was hurting himself, but before he could voice his concerns, Sylvain’s lips had rejoined his. He kissed the mage deeply, humming contentedly as he mapped Linhardt’s mouth once more.

“I see you worrying,” Sylvain said, halfway parting from the other. “There’s no need for concern. I promise you, I’m fine. You’re sweet to fret over me, though…my sweet Linhardt…” his voice trailed off as his teeth grazed the skin just under Linhardt’s jaw. “_My Linhardt_…”

The bishop trembled as Sylvain teased the sensitive flesh of his neck, and his hands grasped needily at the taut muscles of his lover’s back. He held tight to the other man, like his very spirit might ascend from his body if he let go. Sylvain, meanwhile, kissed his way down the column of Linhardt’s throat, to the hollow of his collarbone, to the valley of his breast.

Linhardt’s eyelids felt heavy, his nerves sparking under Sylvain’s touch. The redhead ventured lower, taking extra time to lavish the Adrestian’s crest with kisses. Linhardt’s toes curled and the faintest mewl escaped him. He felt Sylvain’s lips pull into a smirk against his body.

“There it is,” he cooed without looking up at the other man. “How I’ve missed that sound.”

Linhardt tried to throw him a spiteful glare, but was deterred as Sylvain sank lower, leaving the mage to weave his fingers in the other’s tousled red hair. Sylvain continued his path southward, pressing his lips to each of Linhardt’s ribs, then to his stomach, then to the corners of his hips. He dragged his hands down the length of his partner’s waist with feather-light fingers as his head dipped between Linhardt’s legs. The bishop bit down on his lower lip as Sylvain explored his inner thigh, his mouth ghosting over every inch–curious and unhurried.

“Hey,” he said, his lips sweeping dangerously close to Linhardt’s erect length. “Are you going to say my name?”

Linhardt looked down to where his partner nuzzled his leg, and Sylvain looked back at him with half-shut, devious eyes. He bit his lip a tad harder, finding himself too bashful to respond all of a sudden. Sylvain smiled knowingly against him.

“It’s okay if you’re too flustered to speak right now,” he said, once again dragging himself torturously close to Linhardt’s erection. “I’ll coax it out of you one way or another.”

Linhardt felt feverishly warm, and he was certain that his face was glowing red. It only became worse as Sylvain’s lips parted, and his tongue traced its way up his shaft at a speed that could only be described as cruel. Linhardt’s teeth released his lip as he gasped, his entire body already quaking with anticipation. He’d forgotten just how quickly Sylvain could unravel him. The knight reached Linhardt’s tip, swirling his tongue around it rather gratuitously. Linhardt fought to keep his nails from sinking into Sylvain’s scalp as the older man closed his lips around his arousal, his tongue pressing insistently against him. His mouth was warm, and sinfully inviting. Linhardt wanted so badly to push himself deeper, to feel it completely surround and consume him–to lose himself in the heat. But Sylvain would not grant reprieve to him so readily. He lifted himself away, sucking lightly on Linhardt’s head before parting. The mage whimpered pitifully at the loss, his body writhing after the brief but potent hint of stimulation.

“It really doesn’t take much to drive you mad, does it?” Sylvain asked, one of his hands caressing its way from Linhardt’s thigh to his cock, his thumb teasing where his mouth had just been. Linhardt’s hips bucked into the noble’s palm, as if to answer on his behalf. Sylvain laughed breathily, his lips just barely meeting the base of Linhardt’s length as his hand performed a few experimental pumps. The Adrestian felt as though he were teetering on the edge of insanity as he squirmed under Sylvain’s hand. He wanted more than this; he wanted to be engulfed by the emotions he’d suppressed for so long, he wanted to fall headfirst into their depths, he wanted to feel Sylvain on him. Around him. Within him.

“Sylvain,” he said weakly, prompting the knight to pause his actions and look upon Linhardt with fervid eyes. “More,” he pleaded. “More…I need…more of you…”

Sylvain was still for a moment longer, his face unreadable until a subdued grin broke across his features. Wordlessly, he took Linhardt’s erection into his mouth again, this time swallowing him deeper while his hands returned to his partner’s thighs, giving them an appreciative squeeze. Linhardt’s eyes rolled upward as Sylvain’s tongue lapped at his cock, his lips sinking halfway down his shaft before repeating the motion over and over again. Linhardt, losing his tenuous grasp on lucidity, unwittingly tugged on Sylvain’s disheveled hair. The soldier growled around him, the vibrations causing Linhardt to nearly thrust into his throat as he cried out toward the ceiling. His volume was unrestrained. He no longer cared if anyone heard his incriminating vocalizations. The judgements of strangers were meaningless to him. He only cared that Sylvain could hear, that his lover could listen as he was spun higher and higher.

“Sylvain,” he said in what was almost a sob. The redhead groaned, as if the very utterance of his name was enough to pleasure him. Linhardt’s fingers curled harder into his hair at the thought. “Sylvain…Sylvain,” each recitation of his name sounded more wanton than the last. Sylvain, spurred by sound, took Linhardt further–his head bobbing up and down at a pace that betrayed his excitement.

Linhardt took rapid, panting breaths as he felt himself coiling tighter. His vision became blurred, his muscles tensing as release threatened to crash down upon him. But he didn’t want it yet–not like this. He relinquished his grip on Sylvain’s hair to find where the noble’s hands still held his thighs wide.

“Sylvain,” he said his name again, this time beckoning his attention. Sylvain, hearing the desire in his lover’s voice, lifted his head. He looked ravenous, Linhardt observed as he seemed to stalk his way up his body, his golden eyes igniting the Adrestian’s skin. Sylvain captured Linhardt’s lips as his hand resumed his mouth’s work, stroking him back to the brink of euphoria.

Linhardt moaned unreservedly into the other man’s mouth as their tongues clashed, his body twitching and trembling beneath Sylvain. His hands found purchase in the soldier’s stiff, hunched shoulders, fingernails indenting his flesh as Linhardt was pushed over the edge. His head fell backward as he cried out in release, and Sylvain watched him come undone with unwavering, idolatrous fixation. Linhardt came into his partner’s hand, hips thrusting desperately at nothing. Sylvain continued to pump him until he was nearly flaccid, kissing a line across Linhardt’s forehead as the bishop’s awareness slowly returned.

“You’re lovely when you fall apart,” he said, his lips resting upon the younger man’s temple. “I really do adore you.”

Linhardt only hummed in reply, his mind still lost in the wake of his climax. He turned his head, stretching to press his lips to Sylvain’s again.

“I still want you,” he said, kissing the knight repeatedly as if to plead his case. Sylvain returned his affections every time, wanting to memorize the feeling of those lips on his–soft like he’d never felt, starved like he’d never known. Sylvain watched Linhardt as he delivered kiss after kiss. He observed his fluttering eyelashes and his intoxicated expression as he latched onto the redhead, opening his eyes when he sensed he was being studied.

“What?” He asked with pause.

Sylvain shook his head. “Nothing,” he replied, his voice an awe-stricken whisper. “You’re just captivating, is all.”

Linhardt said nothing, his eyes skimming over Sylvain’s face as though he were searching for something. After several seconds of silence, he leaned toward the soldier again, his tongue pushing past malleable lips to kiss him deeply–honestly. Sylvain groaned into him, his hand beginning to stroke Linhardt again. The smaller man’s body convulsed, somewhat overstimulated from being toyed with so soon after orgasm. Even so, he was quick to stiffen as his partner pressed him against the pillows with the force of his kisses while his hand moved with slow, calculated motions.

As he became fully erect, Sylvain abandoned his length to wander elsewhere. His fingers, coated in the other’s semen, traced circles around his rim, and Linhardt’s mouth went slack against Sylvain in a soundless cry. Gingerly, the noble inserted a finger, feeling Linhardt clench around him on reflex. There was a painful throb in his groin as he imagined sheathing himself within his tight walls. He persisted through the temptation, his impatience evident in the way he eagerly drew himself in and out of the mage. Linhardt didn’t seem to mind the speed, as his legs bent and his feet brushed along the sides of Sylvain’s thighs, urging him on. The soldier’s head fell into the crook of his lover’s neck, his exhalations warm and heavy on Linhardt’s skin. Sylvain hooked a second digit into the mage, feeling him shift restlessly underneath him. He did not slow his pace. He fingered Linhardt with a stretching movement, eliciting a strangulated sound from his partner. Sylvain pressed his mouth against Linhardt’s throat, sucking against the exposed, tender skin in an effort to dim any pain the bishop felt.

Linhardt shuddered at the culmination of sensations flooding his body. He could feel himself lewdly expanding around Sylvain’s fingers–an uncomfortable, but perversely erotic feeling that he scorned himself for enjoying. His neck would likely be dappled with the knight’s marks for days as he continued to suckle against him, seemingly with the intention of drawing blood. He grasped Sylvains shoulders for dear life, his body glistening with a sheen of sweat as he grew impossibly hot. His muscles tensed, his thighs gently squeezing Sylvain between them.

“Sylvain,” Linhardt said again, his voice becoming raspy and laden with want. The noble halted his hand, meeting his lover’s gaze with glassy eyes of his own. Linhardt wished he could speak, but suddenly he lacked the words to convey all that he wanted to say. _I want you_, _I need you_, _don’t let go of me_, _don’t ever leave me_, _I think I’m in love with you_, _I am in love with you_, all seemed like fragments on their own–mere shards of the message that was trapped somewhere between his heart and his mouth. But Sylvain heard him nonetheless.

His lips–becoming intimately familiar with Linhardt’s–reclaimed him, and the mage placed his hands on the other’s cheeks as if to hold him there. He felt Sylvain’s fingers leave him as the knight’s hands joined with his own. He carefully pulled them away from his face to press them into the mattress, their fingers entwining while Sylvain aligned himself with Linhardt. Their lips parted, Sylvain resting his forehead against his partner’s to stare into the oceanic blue eyes that promised to drown him. He didn’t dare blink, even as he buried himself inside Linhardt. He watched the Adrestian’s pupils go wide; watched them flitter across Sylvain’s features as he whimpered softly at the penetration. Sylvain hissed in response as he pushed himself deeper, the dizzying warmth and tension of Linhardt’s body enveloping him. He persisted until his hips were flush against the other’s bottom. Linhardt’s breathing came in labored puffs against his face, and Sylvain pressed a kiss to the corner of his open mouth.

“You feel so good,” he purred, though his voice sounded a bit strained. “Like you were made just for me…Like we were made for each other.”

Linhardt only grunted in reply, his body still adjusting to the way the other man filled him so completely.

“I don’t know how I ever lived without you,” Sylvain continued, looking upon his partner with delirious adoration. “I don’t know that I ever could again…My heart actually hurts with the weight of my feelings for you. ” He kissed Linhardt, again and again, his composure slipping a little more with each press of their lips. “You’re everything to me.”

Linhardt kissed him back with fervor, words failing him once again as he was only able to vocalize lecherous moans in reply. His legs wrapped around Sylvain in an effort to bring their bodies somehow closer. Sylvain, in turn, bowed his hips, drawing himself out of his partner before plunging back in. Linhardt cried, unable to distinguish pleasure from pain as Sylvain thrust into him again. The redhead wondered momentarily if he should stop, but his lover’s spasming legs tightening around his waist seemed to object. His hands pressed Linhardt’s into the mattress as he snapped his hips against the mage. Linhardt’s back arched off the bed, his mouth pouring Sylvain’s name and nonsensical whines in an endless mantra. Sylvain drank in the display, grunting ferally as he dove for Linhardt’s parted lips. He eagerly slipped his tongue between them, thirsting for a taste of the man who begged for him.

Linhardt was nearly weeping, his voice muffled by the mouth that smothered him. Every part of him felt overwhelmed–his heart felt as though it had cracked, left to seep all of the emotions that he’d been subduing for Sylvain. His body was wracked by shivers as he became unable to tell where Sylvain ended and he began. It truly felt as though they were melting together; as though they existed solely for one another, and nothing else. Linhardt was unsure if it was love that he felt. He knew love. He knew it excrutiatingly well. But this…this feeling of wholeness, of rapture, was something else entirely.

Fascinated as he was, his coherence was quickly fading. He undulated against Sylvain as the noble fucked him thoroughly, his movements growing hasty and sloppy as he became more desperate for release.

“Linhardt,” Sylvain moaned into his lips. “Don’t look away…Keep your eyes on me…”

He hadn’t even noticed that his eyes had fallen shut, but he opened them as he was told. He was met by Sylvain’s rings of amber, watching him with blazing intensity. Linhardt returned his gaze without falter. Even when his vision started to fade and his body approached its limit, he did not turn away. He held onto all of Sylvain–his body, his stare, his heart. He wanted everything. Only when he saw Sylvain’s eyes flutter and glaze over in ecstasy did he find himself unable to maintain contact. The knight rammed against Linhardt a few times more as he came, forcing himself deep to spill his seed. He gasped for air as if there were none in the room, shouting shamelessly in the heat of orgasm. His voice mingled with his partner’s, the two of them creating a chorus of expletives and cries of pleasure.

“S-Sylvain,” Linhardt called to the other man, his own climax nearly upon him. Sylvain looked at him through the fog that had formed in his eyes. “Kiss me…”

He obeyed without hesitation. His lips greedily met Linhardt’s, as if with the intention of devouring him. The bishop whined unabashedly against them as he crumbled. He clenched around Sylvain’s cock as he came a second time, writhing and quivering until he thought his body was about to break. His legs untangled themselves from Sylvain as he went limp, his lips breaking away from the other’s in favor of catching his breath. Sylvain, too, found himself unable to support his own weight, as he eased himself out of Linhardt only to collapse onto his back at the Adrestian’s side. They laid there together for several silent minutes, the only sound being their haggard breaths.

Once some semblance of clarity had been restored to his mind, Linhardt turned his head toward Sylvain lying beside him. The soldier stared absently at the ceiling, his chest steadily rising and falling while one hand rested crookedly upon his bound midsection. It didn’t look to be the most natural position, prompting Linhardt to scoot himself closer and peel Sylvain’s hand away from his body. He inhaled sharply. The gauze covering his wound was stained red–only a bit, but enough to make Linhardt nervous.

“I told you not to strain yourself,” he said, his voice gravelly from overuse. Though his strength had been all but depleted, he propped himself on his side and began unwinding the bandages from Sylvain’s stomach. The noble chuckled at him.

“You didn’t have any objections two minutes ago,” he jabbed, rolling so that his partner could free him of his bindings.

Linhardt furrowed his brow, but did not respond. He tossed the dirtied material over the side of the bed as he inspected Sylvain’s sutures. The injury looked aggravated, and blood trickled from his stitches, but it was nothing too alarming. Linhardt exhaled a sigh of relief, one hand rubbing its way up Sylvain’s abdomen to touch his wound. The feeling of blood on his fingers was revolting to say the least, but he endured it, summoning a healing spell to his palm. He watched it exude its divine light and ancient symbols, and Sylvain hummed as the magic flowed to his wound. Linhardt held his hand in place for a few moments more before letting the spell fade and slumping back against the pillows. Before he could settle, Sylvain wove his arms around the smaller man, pulling their bodies close until their chests were flat against one another.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his fingertips tracing the edges of Linhardt’s shoulder blades. Linhardt blinked at him, puzzled by the sudden question.

“What do you mean?”

Sylvain smiled softly. “Are you angry with me?” He asked, his tone cautious. “Are you upset? Do you have any regrets?”

Oh, Linhardt thought, shrinking against the knight. He pondered the questions, searching himself for any of the aforementioned emotions. He could not find them. On the contrary, he felt _good_. At peace, even. Better than he had felt in moons. He felt…complete. He pressed a modest kiss against Sylvain’s lips to communicate as much.

“No,” he answered, punctuating his reply with yet another kiss.

“I am not angry at you.”

And another.

“I am not upset.”

And another.

“I have no regrets.”

Sylvain gratefully accepted each kiss, his hold on Linhardt tightening each time their lips met.

“For someone who was so opposed to kissing me, you sure seem to enjoy it,” he mused through a smirk.

“Sorry,” Linhardt muttered against his lips. “Now that I know what it’s like, I don’t know that I can stop.”

Sylvain huffed a laugh, shifting so that his body pinned Linhardt to the mattress. He broke the chastity of their kiss, his tongue delving into the warmth and wet of Linhardt’s mouth. He explored him for several prolonged moments, only parting when there was no oxygen left in his lungs.

“You never have to stop if you don’t want to,” he whispered, his heart throbbing in his chest as the mage gazed up at him with entranced blue eyes, blown wide with desire. The soldier lowered his head, resting it upon his lover’s chest. “I’m not going anywhere, Linhardt. Not without you. Never again.”

Linhardt entangled his fingers into Sylvains hair in a desperate hold. “Good,” he murmured sleepily, “because it’s impossible for me to let go of you now.”


	14. Resonance

He felt a warmth radiating from his back. It was the sort of warmth that came when half the body was shaded while the other was met with sunshine–but not even the sun felt this exquisite. This was tangible. Skin on skin, bodies melded together, explorative lips traveling along the curve of his neck, and a powerful arm snaking around his waist.

“You up?” Sylvain rasped, his mouth suddenly appearing on the helix of Linhardt’s ear. The mage hummed affirmatively, his spine arching as teeth nibbled playfully on his earlobe.

“What time is it?” He asked in a half-moan as Sylvain’s lips ventured to the corner of his jaw.

“Too early for anyone else to be awake,” the knight answered suggestively. At that, Linhardt rolled to face his partner. He met his dreary golden eyes that were still heavy with sleep, yet somehow glimmering with mischief. Already he was leaning for the younger man’s lips. “Wanna mess around?”

_Yes_.

“No.”

Linhardt stopped Sylvain’s advances by holding his palm against the other’s approaching mouth. “Did you not do enough damage to yourself last night? Just let your body recover for a bit,” he scolded gently. “If not for your own sake, then for mine. I need my rest too, you know.”

Although his mouth was concealed, Sylvain was very clearly pouting. Linhardt allowed a modest smile to pass over his features. This scene felt vaguely nostalgic to him. Something about their position was hauntingly familiar, yet not totally identical to whatever distant memory teetered on the edge of his mind.

_Right_, he recalled with amusement. _Our first morning together...when I thought he was going to kiss me..._

Feeling emboldened by the reversal of their roles, he inclined his head while Sylvain observed him with eyes that grew wide with barely-controlled excitement. Linhardt held the other’s gaze as his mouth met the backside of his hand that separated their lips. The amber rings of Sylvain’s eyes were set ablaze as realization struck him. Linhardt held himself in place, feeling a wicked sense of satisfaction at the way Sylvain’s breath seemed to come in heavy, strenuous puffs. He pulled away when the knight’s expression became almost pained, and another small smile twitched on his lips. He felt his hand vibrate as Sylvain released a grunt of desperation and wrenched the smaller man’s palm away from his face. He was on Linhardt in half a second, his mouth meeting the mage’s with gluttonous want. Linhardt went pliant against Sylvain’s tongue as it met his own, pressing into him with uninhibited passion while he twisted and writhed underneath his lover.

“That was mean,” Sylvain said, only partially separating from Linhardt. “You can’t tell me to restrain myself and then tease me like that.”

“Sorry,” Linhardt replied, grinning reservedly against his partner. “I couldn’t resist.”

Sylvain kissed him again with strong, insistent lips before easing away to simply hold Linhardt’s slender frame against him.

“You’re in rare form this morning,” he mused, “I think you’ve smiled more in the past two minutes than you have in the entire time I’ve known you.”

“Have I?” Linhardt hummed reflectively. “I suppose I’m just...happy.”

He felt Sylvain lift his head attentively. “Really?”

“Yes,” Linhardt continued, “I don’t know that I could explain exactly why, though. It’s like I feel...lighter. Like a huge weight has been lifted from me. I feel safe, and at peace. I feel like I’m whole again. That probably sounds so strange–”

“No,” Sylvain said, as though he were hanging on Linhardt’s every word, “No, it’s not strange.”

“...In any case, I suppose I have you to thank for that. I really don’t know what would have become of me if we hadn’t met when we did. In a way, I may very well owe you my life.”

Linhardt’s body rocked against Sylvain’s as the soldier laughed. “I’m sure that I owe you mine, too,” he said. “You brought me back from the brink. You poured yourself into healing me and kept watch over me from dawn till dusk. Meeting you was a blessing if I’ve ever known one. Maybe you’re my guardian angel or something.”

He laughed again, and Linhardt cringed at him. “There’s no need for such adulation.”

“Sure there is! The man who saved my life deserves nothing less.”

“You think too much of me…” Linhardt had never quite known how to accept praise, but when it came from Sylvain, it brought a warm reverberence to his chest that made him feel like he was glowing from the inside.

“Maybe, but how could I not?” He swathed himself around Linhardt, burying his face into the crook of his neck and groaning as if in frustration. “I don’t know what to do...It feels like my heart is overflowing.”

Linhardt felt breathless, not from the force with which Sylvain squeezed him, but from the power of the emotions that welled from the deepest parts of himself–emotions he’d thought for sure were lost to him. _I love him_, he thought, leaning his head against where Sylvain’s had settled on him. _I had no idea it was possible to love someone this fiercely._

It was true. He’d known love, of course, but this was a drastic augmentation compared to anything he’d felt before. Where his love for Byleth had come gradually and gracefully, his love for Sylvain had come with all the intensity of a hurricane. Where his love for Byleth had been the calm, steady flow of a river, his love for Sylvain was a turbulent sea churning with white-capped waves. Where one had swept him away slowly, the other plunged him into its bottomless fathoms. Even now, he sank; deeper and deeper, being swallowed into warm waters. It was terrifying, and yet, he found himself so willing to drown.

He wanted to tell Sylvain as much...but not yet. To let the other know that he’d fallen so hard and so fast felt too great a risk at this point. He was content for the two of them to remain just as they were for a little while longer; to let this relationship be what it was and let it turn from bud to bloom on its own time.

“Sylvain?” Linhardt said hushedly.

“Yeah?” The other replied, turning to meet his partner’s gaze.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“...I don’t know.” He was not altogether sure why the words had suddenly come to him, only that they seemed imperative. “For not giving up on me. And for coming back, and for talking to me that night...for a lot of things, I guess.”

Sylvain considered the mage for a moment with shining eyes before his face relaxed into a placid smile.

“You say that like any of it was hard for me,” he said. “Caring about you is no chore. At this point, it comes as naturally as breathing.”

“Still,” Linhardt insisted, “you very easily could have passed me right by that evening. You didn’t have to approach me, much less speak to me. Our paths almost never intertwined. Sometimes I wonder what it was that made you look my way.”

Sylvain drew himself away from Linhardt a bit, allowing some distance so that he could see his lover’s face more fully. His lips pursed, and Linhardt could see him sifting through his thoughts with the same focus as someone thumbing through the pages of a book.

“I’m not sure that I have an answer to that,” he replied, finally. “I think it was your face.”

“My face?” Linhardt repeated with a slight tilt of his head.

“Yeah,” Sylvain confirmed, speaking with more surety. “It was something about your face; something in your expression. You looked so...empty. Like you were barely there. Like if I blinked, you might vanish into thin air. My first thought was that you might have been sick or something.”

Linhardt stared at him with unblinking eyes. “So it was pity that compelled you?”

Sylvain shook his head earnestly. “No, not pity, at least not on its own. But I knew that I’d seen that look before–hell, I saw it every time I saw my own reflection–and I couldn’t turn away. You just..._tugged_ at me. You drew me in like there was nothing to be done about it. All I could think was ‘I have to go to him. I need to go to him.’ When I did, you told me exactly what I’d suspected you would–that you’d lost someone. Only it was more than that. You’d lost everything but yourself, and even that was starting to slip away.” His face looked almost desperate as he spoke. “I went to you because I was afraid that you would end up like me; jaded and broken and completely indifferent to the preservation of your own life. I wanted to help you. I had no way of knowing that you would end up doing the same for me…that you would become the single most important thing in my life. I–”

Linhardt cut him off as he lunged forward, firmly catching Sylvain’s lips with his own. He didn’t know what else to do. His chest throbbed with a bittersweet ache that commanded him to do something–anything–to alleviate it. It was damn near maddening. It was unbearably painful and gloriously euphoric at the same time. Linhardt wondered again if such a powerful and all-consuming feeling could be condensed into a word so small and broad as ‘love’.

“That’s enough,” he spoke in a whisper as he released Sylvain, who gazed at him as if in awe. “No more…I don’t ever want to go back to that time. I never want to feel like that again–I never want _you_ to feel like that again. You’re a much better man than you give yourself credit for. I wish there was some way I could make you see that.”

Sylvain did not move nor speak. He looked like he wanted to kiss him again, but he refrained.

“I have you now, don’t I?” He said, his voice dropping to match Linhardt’s. “That alone is enough to make me think that I’m not an entirely lost cause.”

Linhardt gave him a pained half-smile before tucking his head under Sylvain’s chin.

“...I _do_ have you, right?” The soldier asked, as if seeking reassurance.

“You do.”

“And you want to stay beside me?”

“I do.”

“I’m glad…I’m really glad,” Sylvain said with something sembling relief, and Linhardt could tell that he was smiling. “I just hope that you don’t change your mind later when–” Linhardt lifted his head to cast his partner a questioning look. The other man caught it and closed his mouth before he could finish the sentence. “Nevermind,” he said dismissively.

“‘When’ what?” Linhardt pushed, his interest roused. Sylvain pressed his lips into a line and shook his head stubbornly.

“It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”

“‘When’ _what_?”

“Linhardt,” Sylvain whined petulantly, his head falling forward to rest on the younger man’s shoulder, “I just told you it was nothing! Please let it go, just…let me enjoy this moment.” Linhardt felt the other’s arms tighten around him. “Let me hold you a little longer now that you’re mine to hold. I just want to stay like this...for as long as I can, I want to stay like this.”

The bishop silently feuded with himself over whether to give up his pursuit of an answer before ultimately deciding that he, too, wanted to let there be peace between them, at least for the moment; he, too, wanted to draw out this one, fleeting point in time until he was forced to let go. With those sentiments in his mind, he relaxed in Sylvain’s arms, peppering the noble’s neck with feather-light kisses.

“You know that nothing could change how I feel about you, right?” 

Sylvain hummed against him. 

“And you know that I adore you?”

He hummed again.

“So how can you think that there’s anything in this world strong enough to pull me apart from you?”

This time, there came no vocal response. Instead, Sylvain lifted his head to meet the infinite depths of Linhardt’s blue eyes. Ignoring his own cautionings from minutes earlier, the Adrestian shifted to hold Sylvain’s face in his hands, and kissed him with a suppressed sense of urgency. His lips parted, and his lover accepted their invitation. They kissed once, twice, a dozen times, every touch between them more demanding and impassioned than the last. Their bodies became entangled as smothered sounds echoed all around them, and they were but shadows in the morning’s soft new light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this is a shorter chapter, but i have a feeling that 15 is gonna be long and i really didn't want this to overlap with it if that makes sense lol  
thank you as always for reading and supporting!!


	15. Overlap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: abuse mention (in the section where sylvain discusses his childhood/relationship with miklan)

Despite Linhardt’s initial concerns, Sylvain’s recovery seemed to accelerate in the days that followed. They established a routine of stretches and physical activities to help him recuperate, which they executed twice daily. He was allowed to wander and exercise, although Linhardt was adamant that he not pick up a weapon for at least another week. Sylvain, who’d been giddily and inexplicably agreeable as of late, had no objections. He seemed grateful for every second spent in the other’s company. Linhardt could empathize, as he had been in particularly high spirits himself recently. He knew well why—this was the fabled ‘honeymoon phase’, right? He had to admit it was nice, waking up every morning with Sylvain curled close to him; a welcome change from the isolation he’d endured before. Even when Sylvain had slept beside him weeks earlier, Linhardt had made it a point to be at a distance when the noble awoke to dilute any sense of togetherness. He was glad to be rid of the farcical habit.

Meanwhile the winter strengthened, transitioning from harsh to downright murderous. It seemed to snow every other day, dumping foot after foot of ice onto the hamlet. It was beautiful to look at, but torture to inhabit. Linhardt worried that they would be trapped at the inn if it continued. Sylvain, however, didn’t seem to mind it. Linhardt had caught him several times attempting to wander outside for a better look and had quite literally dragged him back indoors before he could catch a cold. Part of him found it endearing, but another thought Sylvain insane for finding delight in such unforgiving conditions. Especially when he inadvertently subjected Linhardt to it.

“What in the world are you doing?” The mage groaned. He’d entered their room to see Sylvain leaning casually against the frame of the window, which had been thrown wide open as if to invite the freeze. He’d gone to retrieve extra blankets from the innkeepers for the night, and it seemed that he would have to put them to immediate use as the bitter air that entered the room stung Linhardt’s cheeks like a slap to the face. Sylvain only spared him a quick glance from over his shoulder before returning his fervent, gleaming eyes to the landscape.

“Come look,” he said, and Linhardt detected a ring of child-like joy in his voice.

A bit off-put by his partner’s flippancy, Linhardt sighed and walked to join him, abandoning the blankets at the foot of their bed with great reluctance. As he came to stand at Sylvain’s side, the cold bit through his clothes with ease, and he folded his arms around himself to preserve whatever heat he could. He looked at Sylvain expectantly, but the soldier appeared transfixed elsewhere. Linhardt followed his eyes to where they gazed intently out the window, and he nearly gasped. Outside there were enormous, heavy flakes, falling in a sideways barrage as violent gusts buffeted the village. Save for the whistle of the wind, it was quiet, and the pair stood in wonder as they watched the multitude of white specks billow and swirl. The flakes that caught the light from their room seemed to glitter momentarily as they passed the window, like tiny shards of pulverised glass, but everything else was obscured. Never had Linhardt seen snow fall in such quantity, and he looked in a mix of fright and amazement as it seemed to continue without end.

An arm wrapping around his waist made Linhardt jump, and Sylvain pulled him close until the mage was leaning against his side.

“Isn’t it incredible?” he asked, still staring outside.

“It is,” Linhardt agreed, relaxing against the other man’s familiar heat.

“It’s not going to stop till morning.”

“How do you know?”

“I used to watch storms like this all the time as a kid. They can go on for hours and hours without letting up...”

Linhardt shot him an uneasy glance. “You don’t intend to leave the window open that long, do you?”

Sylvain’s head fell back as he laughed, and he finally met Linhardt’s eyes, “What, you don’t think I could keep you warm in a blizzard?”

“I think you overestimate yourself.”

Sylvain laughed again before looking back to the snow, and they stood in silence for a few minutes more.

“I think this is more snow than I’ve seen in my entire life,” Linhardt said, noting how quickly it was accumulating on top of the blanket that already laid heavy on the earth. “I’m glad you convinced me not to travel in such conditions.”

“I’m glad you decided to listen to me,” Sylvain returned. “A soft and scrawny Adrestian like yourself isn’t built for weather like this. You’d get blown away in a heartbeat.”

“I made it all the way here by myself, didn’t I?” Linhardt jabbed goodnaturedly. “I certainly wouldn’t have thrived, but I might have survived for at least a little while.”

“Who’s overestimating himself now?” Sylvain said with a smirk.

“Oh? And what about you? You who—in a stroke of brilliance—thought he could wander out into the snow and single-handedly assassinate an emperor?”

“Hey, I had her on the ropes there for a minute,” Sylvain said, and Linhardt wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not. “I think I could have done it. If I’d been just a little more prepared or if I’d had even a few soldiers at my back...I’m sure I could have done it.”

The lightness was gone from his voice, and a disconcerting gravity took its place.

“You never told me what happened...when you got hurt,” Linhardt said softly, craning his neck to see that the smile had vanished from Sylvain’s face as he stared into the storm. Without thought, one of Linhardt’s hands trailed to his partner’s abdomen, coming to rest over his nearly-mended injury from the aforementioned battle.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to hear about it,” he said without looking back to Linhardt.

“Tell me,” he said, silently pleading for Sylvain to look his way. The knight heeded his call, pulling his eyes from the window to meet Linhardt’s beckoning gaze. “I want you to tell me.”

The older man examined his face momentarily before giving a slow, solemn nod. He proceeded to recant his confrontation with Edelgard in lurid detail; describing how he stalked her movements for days, how he ambushed her in the night, how she managed to best him despite the odds, how he pinned her to the ground, how she planted Aymr in his body, and how he speared her shoulder before falling. Linhardt listened to it all with growing horror. It was far too easy for his mind to construct the scene as it was given to him. He knew just how swift and merciless a fighter Edelgard was. He’d seen the destruction that her skill and her weapon wrought. He’d known all along that the result Sylvain achieved was practically inevitable, but he hadn’t known how hearing about it would shake him to his core. For a single second, he thought of Byleth again and the end he’d met at the Emperor’s hand—how he, too, had taken her axe, but hadn’t lived to tell the tale. It made him sick how close history had come to repeating itself.

“Weren’t you scared?” Linhardt asked, his hand absently rubbing Sylvain’s abdomen.

“Sure I was. I was terrified,” Sylvain replied, as though it should have been obvious, “but it wasn’t because I thought I was going to die. What really scared me was thinking that I’d failed. Not only in my mission, but that I’d failed _you_—that I’d left you for no reason, that I’d caused you needless pain, that I couldn’t give you the future you deserve.”

Linhardt felt his lover’s arm tighten around his waist.

“If that future had been one without you, then I’m glad that you failed,” the mage said calmly. “Even if you’d managed to defeat her, an existence absent of you is not one worth having.”

Sylvain’s eyes lit up for a heartbeat before his mouth pulled to a frown. “Don’t say that,” he said, turning to look out the window again. “Don’t base the value of your life on whether or not I’m a part of it. Your life is your own, and I want only to protect it. No matter the cost.”

“That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?” Linhardt said, eyes still locked on Sylvain. “To say that your survival shouldn’t determine the quality of my life and then imply that you would surrender your life to preserve mine...that hardly seems fair.”

He felt Sylvain’s chest puff a single laugh, but his smile did not return to his face.

“I almost had her, Linhardt,” Sylvain repeated, his voice barely audible over the wind. The bishop did not respond. He resigned to watching the endless downpour of snowflakes, settling his weight against his partner. “Don’t linger on it,” he said softly. “What has passed cannot be undone, nor redone. Dwelling on it will only dampen the present.”

There was another puff from Sylvain’s lungs. “Those aren’t words I ever thought I’d hear from you.”

“Believe me, I never thought I’d be speaking them,” his hand that had been rubbing Sylvain’s abdomen began to mindlessly trace the seam of his shirt. “Besides, one might even say that your efforts were successful, depending on how you look at it.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“Well...you may not have killed her, but she didn’t kill you either,” Linhardt replied, treading somewhat carefully. “That alone is a victory, small as you may think it. You lived and you returned to me...and in doing so you’ve given me the chance to see that future you think I deserve.” Though he did not look back to Sylvain, he could feel the soldier’s eyes upon him, watching silently, but with an unfaltering intensity.

Sylvain’s heart thudded within his chest, and it would not have surprised him if Linhardt heard it. He stared at him as he gazed distantly into the night, his expression hopelessly unreadable. Part of Sylvain wanted to tell him that as long as Edelgard was alive, that future could not become reality; that until she was pulled from her palace and stripped of all her wretched glory, they could not live freely; that until she answered for the lives she’d stolen, they would never know peace. But he held his tongue. He said nothing. He only placed a kiss on Linhardt’s head and held him close, guarding his lover as he watched the snow fall—burying the earth, and them with it.

– – –

Linhardt did not know what had forced him awake. One minute he was held firmly in the grasp of sleep, and the next he was staring at the ceiling. There had been no nightmares, no sudden disturbances of which he was aware, and no signals of danger. Even the wind, which had been battering the window when he’d fallen asleep, had quieted. His groggy mind reached with tenuous fingers to grab hold of whatever had stirred him—whatever was causing him to feel so...wrong.

Empty, was the only word he could summon to his brain. But why? What was empty? What was gone? What was missing?

The bed. The bed was empty, or at least emptier. One hand reached out beside him, seeking someone—seeking warmth. Instead, it found sheets. Panic began to set in, killing whatever remnants of sleep still lingered in Linhardt’s head. He sat up, his eyes confirming what his hand had felt. Sylvain was gone.

His first reaction came as a sickening wave of fear and anger. _Damn him_, he thought, _he’s run off to do something stupid again._ He recalled their conversation from earlier in the night, and the theory was all too plausible. Just as a horribly familiar sense of dread was settling upon him, his eyes located something propped in the corner on the opposite side of the room. The Lance of Ruin stood where it had since the day Sylvain had returned, coated with a thin layer of dust from the days of neglect. Relief flooded Linhardt’s senses at the sight of it. His thoughts made calm, he let his gaze sweep the room for further reassurance: Sylvain’s armor still sat folded in the chair by the desk, his clothes were still scattered carelessly on the floor, every sign of his presence still remained. The only thing that preserved the worry in the pit of Linhardt’s belly was that his side of the bed was cold. He’d been gone for a while, it seemed.

Linhardt found himself unable to fully shake his sense of unease. Wherever Sylvain had gone, it was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but the certainty of it was eerie and undeniable. Linhardt rose, hastily dressed himself in whatever clothes he could grab, and left the room to search for his partner. He looked down the hall both ways as he exited, unable to see any form or movement in the dark. Every sconce on the walls both upstairs and down had long been doused, and he had to feel his way to the banister. He walked with muted footsteps, his eyes scanning the tavern area as he slowly descended the stairs. There was nothing. No one. Where in the world had he wandered off to? With great apprehension, Linhardt made his way to the front door. While it seemed a stretch to think that Sylvain would decide to take a late night stroll through the snow, it wasn’t an impossibility. Linhardt agonized over the thought of trudging through the ice to look for him, and mentally braced himself to spend hours weathering the cold. As he opened the door, he was both grateful and annoyed to find the other man just a few paces from the entrance, chest bare, eyes aimed at the cloud-spotted night sky that still sprinkled snowflakes on the land like grains of salt.

Linhardt took a hesitant step forward, cursing when his leg was engulfed in snow up to his knee. Still, he forced himself forward, already shivering violently. “What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked through chattering teeth.

Sylvain didn’t acknowledge him.

His irritation growing, Linhardt powered forward until he was just inches from his partner’s side. “You’re going to get yourself sick, standing out here half naked like that.”

Again, Sylvain said nothing, and the agitation in Linhardt began to morph into fear again.

“Sylvain…?”

“Have I ever told you about Miklan?” the knight said suddenly, still gazing overhead.

Linhardt wrapped his arms around himself. “No.”

“Yeah, I thought not,” Sylvain stuffed his hands into his pockets, but otherwise held his position. “He was a real bastard; hated me with every fiber of his being. I’m sure you already know that he was born without a Crest. You were part of the team sent to eliminate him, after all.”

Linhardt recalled the mission briefly, remembering the grotesque horror of watching the older Gautier be transformed from human to Demonic Beast by the same weapon that now sat in the same room where he slept. “Yes,” he said, his voice shaking, though not from the cold.

“He resented me for having one. He resented me for ever being born. Though to be fair, my parents pretty much pushed him aside in favor of me. The presence of a Crest has always been held to the utmost importance in my family, and I guess they saw no worth in putting their time into a kid that lacked one. So he channeled all of that frustration and agony into tormenting me. He’d hit me and shove me and kick me…he’d spit on me and make fun of me and belittle me every chance he got. It became his life’s purpose to try and make me regret ever existing. The shittiest part is that it worked for a while.”

Linhardt could feel his heart cracking, but he let Sylvain speak without interruption.

“He was my big brother, though,” the noble continued, grief manifesting only slightly in his voice. “I really wanted to look up to him, and I wanted him to accept me and guide me like older siblings should. I held onto that desire for so long. I tried so hard to see good in him, no matter how cruel he was to me. One day, right after we’d had a huge snowfall just like this, he offered to take me to play. He knew I loved snow, and that there was no way I’d turn down the chance to spend time with him. I thought that was it—he’d finally decided he loved me, he’d finally decided that I was worthy of being his brother...that’s delusional, right? Was I really so blind and stupid for thinking that?”

Linhardt shook his head adamantly. “Of course not.”

Sylvain paused before resuming, his gaze never straying from the sky. “...Anyway, I went with him. He told me not to tell our parents because they’d try to send someone with us and he wanted it to just be him and me...that should have been my first sign that his intentions weren’t honest. He let me ride with him on his horse, he even gave me the reins for a while. That was the only time I ever felt like I really had a big brother. For those few, short minutes, I was so full of hope. I thought, ‘this is all we needed—just one chance to bond. Now he’ll realize that I’m not so bad. He’ll stop trying to hurt me. He’ll finally start see me as family.’ Goddess, I was wrong.

“He told me that the snow in the mountains was perfect, good and thick—the kind that was best for making snowballs. We rode further and further from home...and that was when the snow started coming down again.” His face contorted into a nearly-pained expression. “I remember him pushing me off the saddle and falling face-first into the snow, then the sound of him riding off. I looked up and he was gone...I was all alone. I tried my best to stay calm. I told myself that it was fine, I would just follow the tracks back home and everything would be okay, but the flurry turned into a blizzard. His tracks were buried, and I couldn’t see anything. I tried convincing myself that surely my parents would notice when Miklan came back and I didn’t...but they weren’t even aware that I’d left. Knowing Miklan, he would just lie and say that he had no idea where I was. I think that was when I started to cry.

“I remember feeling broken. I was so lonely and scared and tired. My eyes burned from the snow, and the gusts hitting them only made it worse. My whole face was sore from the fall. My wrist was sprained from where I’d tried to catch myself. On top of that I was still little, so trying to walk in all that wind and ice exhausted me after just a few minutes. Eventually I collapsed. I kept crying though; not for help or even for my mother, but for Miklan. I begged and screamed for him to come back. I yelled that I was still there, that he’d forgotten me. Even though I knew it wasn’t true, I desperately wanted it to be.”

Linhardt shuffled closer to Sylvain until their arms brushed. Something inside him said that he needed to feel his presence. Still, the taller man stared at the stars.

“Luckily, some hunters were nearby to hear my cries. They carried me down the mountain and back home. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father so furious. He gave me the tongue-lashing of the century, and all the while Miklan was just...glaring at me. Like he was just as pissed. My father asked me what happened and I made up a story about wandering up the mountain by myself. Isn’t that pathetic? Even after the hell he’d just put me through, I still wanted to cover for my brother. It’s like I couldn’t stand the thought of giving him more reason to hate me. I wanted him to know that, and so I was looking at him the whole time I spoke. That’s how my father knew I was lying. He saw me staring at Miklan and I think he caught on pretty quickly. It’s not like that was the first time my brother had tried something like that, but it was the first time where the result might have been my death. He grabbed Miklan by the arm and hauled him off somewhere while my mother took me to get patched up. Later that night I saw Miklan all curled into a ball and crying in a corner of a hallway. That was the first and only time I saw him shed tears. I felt so...guilty. Like I was the one who’d made him cry by getting him in trouble. I wanted to hug him and apologize and beg for his forgiveness, and I tried. I said ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me. I tried to lie, I tried to protect you.’ He looked at me with the most evil eyes I’ve ever seen on a human being. He told me to shut up. He said, ‘I don’t want your pity. I want you dead.’”

Linhardt wanted to cry for Sylvain. He wanted to hold him and tell him how sorry he was that he had to endure such torture, but it would do no good. The soldier didn’t seem to be vying for sympathy anyway. There was an underlying message somewhere in his story, some point he was preparing to convey. It made Linhardt anxious.

“From that day on, Miklan became more violent with me. I knew then that there was killing intent to every malicious thing he did: every shove, every kick, every punch became an attempt on my life. But I could never bring myself to hate him with the same vehemence. I settled for staying out of his way and living in fear of him until he was officially disowned by our family and expelled from our house. I swore to myself that I would never let anyone put that terror in me again—that I would never go another day worrying over whether I’d end up with a knife in my back. Edelgard rules by that same fear…and that’s exactly why I can’t sit idly by and let her continue living.”

His stony gaze at last fell to Linhardt, and the mage’s heart seemed to stop. He felt numb, though whether it resulted from the cold or the realization he felt dawning was unclear.

“I know what needs to be done, Linhardt.”

“Sylvain—”

“And I want you with me when I do it.”

Linhardt stared dumbly at his partner. He was joking, right? He had to be. There was no way that after being maimed by her blade, he wanted to challenge Edelgard again. There was no way that he thought having Linhardt at his side would be the difference between victory and defeat; defeat, of course, being their deaths. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound escaped him. No words traversed the path between his mind and his tongue. There was utter blankness.

“You think I’m crazy,” Sylvain finally said when Linhardt failed to reply. There was no accusation in his voice, only understanding. The younger man, still speechless, closed his gaping mouth. He wasn’t sure what his emotional reaction was supposed to be, but he sensed betrayal rearing its ugly head.

“No, I know you’re not crazy,” he answered, his face drawn. “That’s what frightens me. You’ve arrived at this conclusion with a clear mind, and it’s terrifying.”

Sylvain maintained his sympathetic expression. “I’m not trying to scare you.”

Linhardt gave the proposal a few more seconds to sink in, hoping that time would make it somehow more logical to him. It didn’t. It only nurtured his frustration.

“How do you envision this playing out, exactly?” Linhardt asked, trying to keep the bitterness in his voice to a minimum.

Sylvain shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“Do you have any semblance of a plan at all?”

“Not really.”

He was dumbfounded. How was it that Sylvain was able to make such a bold request without any rationale to back it up? Did he imagine that they would arrive at the gates of Enbarr without dilemma and that Edelgard would proceed to offer up her own neck? Had he deluded himself into thinking that they really stood some sort of chance—that their combined failures were somehow a formula for success?

“I can see you thinking,” Sylvain said as he watched his partner slowly coming to a boil. “What about?”

“Just...I don’t…” Linhardt had to swallow before restarting. “Didn’t you say that you wanted to protect me?”

Sylvain nodded, “I did.”

“So why are you asking me to do something so dangerous—and_ useless_?”

Sylvain hesitated, his eyes flitting over Linhardt’s rigid face as if in search of something.

“Linhardt,” he said soothingly, and the Adrestian loathed the way his tensed body relaxed as if by reflex, “I’m not going to force you into anything. Just tell me you don’t want to, and I promise I’ll never ask again.”

Linhardt’s shoulders fell from their defensive posture. “...You won't?”

“Of course. I told you that I would never leave you again, and I meant it. If you don’t think that this is a goal worth pursuing, then I won’t.”

“Really?” Linhardt asked, perking up a bit.

“Really.”

Linhardt nearly let relief wash over him completely. Part of him wished that he would have—that Sylvain’s words had been sufficient, and that he would have dismissed the topic and simply turned away, but he didn’t. Rather, he couldn’t. He saw the fleeting but profound look of pain pass over his lover’s face. He saw the repressed anger and grief. He saw the misery. That’s when Linhardt knew that this was him putting up a front. No matter how he insisted otherwise, Sylvain would never truly be at peace until he had one more shot at vengeance.

Linhardt could practically feel himself being torn in half. He loved Sylvain deeply. The last thing he wanted was to consent to a mission that would likely end only by forfeit of their lives. He fancied himself a psychic, as he’d seen that outcome once already. However his love for Sylvain also compelled him to support his partner no matter the consequence. What chance did they have for peaceful existences anyway? It was only a matter of time before every inch of Fodlan was secured in Edelgard’s ever-expanding grasp, and they could only flee so far. On the other hand, he lacked any desire to kill. Perhaps he’d felt it once for the smallest fraction of a second upon seeing Byleth fall, but it was long gone. As much as he resented and begrudged Edelgard, he wasn’t even sure that he hated her. How could he? They’d sat in the same classroom, dined at the same table, shared the same sweet memories…she was the only classmate he had left. Despite her killing Byleth and driving Linhardt from his home, that single—albeit frayed—thread still bound them together. He did not know if he was capable of severing it.

“Linhardt?”

He was brought back from his machinations by Sylvain, who looked at him with a tilted head and furrowed brows. Linhardt frowned and dropped his gaze to where his feet were buried in the snow.

“Answer me something,” he requested softly.

“Sure, anything.”

He peered upward briefly, “Are you lying to spare my feelings?”

Sylvain’s jawline stiffened. He fought to keep an unruffled expression, but his true thoughts were plain enough.

“Will there be some part of you that becomes bitter toward me for denying you this opportunity?”

“No, I’d never–”

“Do you really believe that we could live contentedly under her?”

The questions seemed to hang suspended in the air. Sylvain’s face was a tortured combination of frustration and hurt, as if he wanted to reply with one answer but was being restrained by a different truth.

“Let me first just say that nothing could ever make me resent you. I need you to know that,” he spoke with great earnesty, and an old, familiar fire lit behind his eyes. “You’re so much more important to me than any chance for revenge. I’m not about to risk losing you for something so selfish. Having said that…I want you to have the brightest possible future. I want both of us to have a chance for long, peaceful lives. As long as she’s breathing…that’s not something I’m able to promise you.” He paused, clenching his fists. “I hate that feeling, Linhardt. I hate feeling like I can’t give you something that so many people are granted freely. I hate feeling like I can’t provide you with even the bare minimum. I feel...lacking.”

“You’re carrying a burden that isn’t yours to bear,” Linhardt answered, matching the sobriety of his partner’s voice. “It’s not your duty to topple the empire, even if you think that you’re dishonoring me or anyone else by not going through with it.”

“It’s worse than dishonor,” Sylvain replied plaintively, “I feel like I’m damning you if I don’t. Knowing that I have the means and the power to tear down the only barrier between us and a normal life...it seems irresponsible to do anything less. You wanted my honest thoughts, so here they are; I wouldn’t be bitter toward you for stopping me. But if something were to happen to you…if my inaction somehow led to you being hurt or, Goddess forbid, killed…the hate that already burns for myself would turn into a blaze that I could never hope to extinguish, and I—” his voice became cracked and his face strained. “I don’t know what I would do.”

Linhardt bit down on the inside of his cheek in an effort to uphold his stable expression. Underneath, however, he was crumbling. This was something he’d never seen in Sylvain before.

_He’s afraid._

He hadn’t the faintest clue how he was supposed to reply, and he was helpless to construct any manner of response. Unintelligible thoughts crowded Linhardt’s mind, causing his head to buzz as if it were infested by an enraged swarm of bees. There was no right answer to this particular dilemma. There was no clear path, no foreseeable conclusion. It felt as if they’d both been cornered, Sylvain’s instincts demanding that he fight while Linhardt’s ordered him to flee.

But he’d already tried that, hadn’t he? When faced with this same decision—to confront the cause of his misery or run away—he’d chosen the latter. In doing so, it seemed he was only delaying the inevitable; arriving at the same impasse and fearing he’d endure the same anguish he’d already known. His life seemed to be a wheel, progressing in a circular motion until he stood exactly where he had half a year ago.

“If we did this, and you were to die...I would surely die as well,” Linhardt said. “I know that you don’t want me to say it, but I’d sooner throw myself in harm’s way than see you hurt again. If you want my support, then that’s just something you’re going to have to accept.”

Sylvain’s face became brighter, but he did not completely shed his look of melancholy. “You say that like you think I’d let either one of us be killed.”

“You nearly got yourself killed once already.”

The noble released a breathy laugh, and the sound chased away a bit of Linhardt’s tension. “You wound me, sir. I’m sure I’ll be stronger when I’ve got my incentive for living fighting by my side.”

There was a pulse of warmth from Linhardt’s chest, but he found himself rolling his eyes. “‘Incentive for living’...there you go lavishing me with gratuitous labels again. To be clear, I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

“I know, I know,” Sylvain replied, dragging his feet through the snow until they brought him to Linhardt, “but the fact that you aren’t fuming at me anymore bodes well for me.” He closed his massive arms around the mage, and the younger party was suddenly aware of how frigid his body had become. He went limp against his partner, unable to stand strong in the heat that so lovingly surrounded him. “I promise that I’ll be fine with whatever you decide. Despite the case I presented, you really are my sole reason for existing. Nothing could ever take precedence over you.”

Linhardt sighed deeply, expelling a cloud of steam that lingered briefly in front of him like a spectre. He watched it waft and disintegrate along with the echo of Sylvain’s words. “Somehow I think you and I both know what’s going to happen,” the Adrestian murmured.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Please,” Linhardt scoffed. “I lack the power to dissuade you, and although you insist otherwise, I know you well enough to know that your itch for retribution will only grow until it drives you mad and you end up doing something thoughtless again. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, it’s that you’re a hopelessly impulsive individual.” He felt Sylvain’s form stiffen around him. “That’s not a bad quality to have,” Linhardt reassured him. “It’s frustrating and anxiety-inducing, certainly, but I prefer it over indecision and over-thinking. Besides, I’m hardly one to criticise...where would I be now if I hadn’t followed my own impulse the night we met?”

Sylvain gave a muted chuckle. “I thank the heavens for that every day.”

“What you’re asking of me now, though,” Linhardt pressed on, resisting the temptation to fall back on the sweet nostalgia of days long passed, “I don’t know if I can accept with the same surety that I did back then. This can’t be a whim decision. There needs to be careful planning and preparation, it needs to be a wholehearted effort from both of us. Nothing can be left to chance—”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Sylvain asked, unable to mask the hopefulness in his tone.

“I’m not saying anything just yet,” Linhardt reiterated. “Only that I’ll think about it.”

A few seconds of silence spanned into minutes, but Linhardt didn’t mind. There was nowhere else he wanted to be. No plush bed or cozy fire could compete with the comfort he found in Sylvain’s embrace.

“Are you scared?” Sylvain asked, his voice low.

“Yes. Are you?” Linhardt was well aware of what the answer would be, but it did not stop his heart from sinking upon hearing it.

“Yeah. Probably more than I was the first time.”

Linhardt propped his chin on Sylvain’s collarbone and met his gaze. He nearly went cross-eyed doing so, finding that Sylvain’s face was much closer than he’d anticipated. “Is it because of me?”

Sylvain smiled lovingly at him, “Don’t take offense, but yes.”

Linhardt’s brows scrunched. He was genuinely disgruntled, but the position of his face turned his displeased frown into a rather endearing pout. Sylvain couldn’t suppress a laugh at the sight of it.

“You find this humorous?”

“No, not at all,” he insisted, still grinning.

“Are you not taking me seriously, then?”

“That’s not it either,” he stroked Linhardt’s unbound hair, but it did little to soothe the younger man. He stubbornly maintained his dissatisfied moue.

“Okay, so enlighten me. How is it that you can stand there and smile at me knowing what tribulations lie ahead?”

Though there was crushing weight to his question, Sylvain seemed impervious to it. His grin widened in either defiance or delirium (Linhardt couldn’t tell which anymore).

“Because I won’t have to face them alone this time.”

Linhardt repressed the urge to point out that he still hadn’t formally agreed to anything...but hadn’t he? He sighed exhaustedly into Sylvain’s chest, cursing himself for being so easily swayed. “Your hold on me must be stronger than I thought for you to have shattered my resolve so effortlessly,” he muttered, feeling small heaves from Sylvain’s chest as his partner laughed mutedly.

“As if I could ever talk you into doing something you didn’t want to do. I’ve learned from experience that stubborn folks like you tend to follow their own gut before listening to outside influences.”

Linhardt’s pouty scowl returned, “So you think me stubborn? Is that a point of charm for you or something?”

Sylvain grinned widely and sincerely, “You could say that. I do love a good challenge, after all.”

Interesting.

“Do you now?” From nowhere came a suggestive, almost predacious undertone that Sylvain had never before heard in Linhardt’s voice. The blue eyes that had been glaring at him darkened to a rather sultry stare, and the noble became intensely aware of Linhardt’s weight against his body. It triggered a criminal tingle in his spine. “Not more than you love me, I hope.”

Sylvain swallowed hard. “No, of course n—”

He caught himself mid-sentence, eyes widening as he realized what words had escaped his mouth. As suddenly as it had appeared, Linhardt’s provocative demeanor vanished only to be replaced by a look of triumph. Just as Sylvain had his games, Linhardt had his own. “Got you.”

“The hell was that?” Sylvain said, exasperated and mildly embarrassed by his involuntary admission.

“I believe you just confessed your love for me,” Linhardt answered, the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips. Sylvain’s brows knit together to give the impression of displeasure, but his eyes shone only with fascination.

“Oh please...I’d hardly call that a confession,” he sneered benignly, his hands travelling to cup Linhardt’s face. “If you’re going to trick me into saying it, then at least let me say it properly.” All traces of playfulness faded from his expression and Linhardt was left to stare into the eyes of a man who spoke with weighted stoicism. “I love you, Linhardt.”

The mage did not breathe, and Sylvain did not stop.

“I love you more than I ever thought possible, sometimes more than I can take. So much that it hurts to be apart from you for more than a minute. You’re all that I think about. You dominate my thoughts all hours of the day and into the night. Even my heartbeats seem to resound with your name. Everything—every part of me—is at your mercy. No matter how much I say it, I worry that you’ll never be able to fully grasp the truth of it…with all that I am, I love you.”

Before Linhardt had the opportunity to speak, Sylvain caught him. His kiss was tender and impassioned, but it never deepened; his lips aligning perfectly with Linhardt’s as if it was becoming instinctual. The younger man’s eyelids began to flutter, but his partner pulled back before he could sink completely.

“_That’s_ a confession,” Sylvain said softly, smirking with wicked satisfaction.

Linhardt felt blood pooling in his cheeks, and he partially buried his face against Sylvain’s chest to hide the pigment. “Have you no shame?” he grumbled.

“What’s there to be ashamed of?” the soldier replied, eyes set on Linhardt and glimmering with amusement. “I meant every word! I’m more embarrassed that you responded by scolding me.”

Linhardt cast him a dismayed glance. He hadn’t thought about that. His knee-jerk reaction to Sylvain’s unmerited praise was always to rebuff him. He made a mental note to work on that. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But you must know already, right?”

Sylvain hummed. “How can I know something I’ve never been told?”

Linhardt sighed. Truthfully, he wanted to say those words he’d so tactfully been avoiding. Though now, with his lover staring at him expectantly and unrelentingly, he found it difficult to summon the courage. Not only that but Sylvain had spoken so...eloquently—with a poeticism that Linhardt hadn’t known he was capable of. He lacked the lingual dexterity to match such an extravagant profession. He had only his raw emotions.

“I don’t have it in me to dress up my words as you did,” he began, still huddled against Sylvain’s chest, “I can only tell you what I feel in plain terms...as naked and pure as what’s in my heart.” He held the other’s eyes, peering up from beneath fans of dark lashes. “I love you, as well. More than I’ve loved anyone before.”

Sylvain’s body was motionless and his face unreadable. Linhardt worried for a moment that his message had not been satisfactory until he felt the knight’s arms tighten around his body once more.

“You’re way too modest,” he whispered. “Say it again…I don’t care how bare you think the words are. Tell me again.”

“I love you,” Linhardt repeated, his tone much more assured than before. He felt Sylvain’s chest deflate, as if every ounce of hair had suddenly been expelled from his lungs.

“Goddess,” the older man whispered breathlessly. “I love you, too. I love you, too—!”

He kissed a trail downward from the crown of Linhardt’s head until their lips reconnected. Linhardt hung onto his partner with the desperation of someone about to be submerged by a riptide. The uncertainty and heaviness that had hung over them before was long forgotten, as was any danger to their lives or the dreadful reality of the task they would soon undertake. It all felt distant now. Maybe Linhardt had dreamed the whole conversation. Maybe he was still dreaming. Even so, he could not bring himself to care. Whether it was a dream or reality, he was happy. For the first time in moons, he’d been granted a taste of peace, and he wanted to hold tight to it for as long as he could. No matter the price, even if it came at the cost of his very existence. This moment they now occupied on the unending wheel of time was all he wanted, and in his arms was all he needed.

_As long as I have your heart just as you have mine_, Linhardt thought,_ neither of us can ever truly die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for the extended wait on this chapter! my classes have resumed, and i'm currently dealing with an ongoing medical issue so... i've been a little preoccupied lmao
> 
> this pretty much marks the halfway point and what i consider to be part 1 of this story. i hope you'll stick around for part 2! there's lots left for lin & sylv. thank you so much for the love & support up to this point, it means the world to me!


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